


Fugue

by Glaucus_Atlanticus



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Dissociation, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glaucus_Atlanticus/pseuds/Glaucus_Atlanticus
Summary: Fugue (n):(1) A musical composition in which multiple parts play the same melody in different ways.(2) A form of temporary amnesia in which a person loses their memories of personal identity.Or: In a world where Yuuri Katsuki never discovered competitive figure skating, Viktor Nikiforov loses himself, finds himself, gains a family, and gives the figure skating world a collective heart attack.





	1. The Stray

**Author's Note:**

> A story where amnesia brings people together instead of keeping them apart--and it reveals more truth than it takes away.
> 
> Content warnings are listed at the end of the first chapter to avoid accidental spoilers.

#### June 5th, St. Petersburg

“Hello, police? This is Yakov Feltsman. I would like to file a missing person report...”

#### June 5th, Hasetsu

The world wasn't supposed to look like a cardboard pop-up book, right?

People swarmed past him, their movements looking robotic yet ghostly at the same time. They were making noises, but he only heard a dull ringing. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the haze remained. He felt his body moving forward—at least, he thought it was his body; it was hard to tell.

His body was going somewhere. Somewhere not-here. He watched passively as his arm pushed open the door, not resisting, because the door would surely lead to somewhere, and that's where he was going. He blinked again and he was outside in the sunlight, and there was no door.

Aha. This must have been Not-Here. Not-Here also looked like cardboard pop-ups, so this was not his destination. There was a man a few paces away, or maybe he was inches away, or several hundred meters. The man was saying things to a woman, but the only sound was that ringing noise. Why was he ringing?

The body giggled. What a silly man, didn't he know people aren't supposed to ring?

A blink. The sky had changed. It was red now, and still hazy. Why did people always say the sky was blue? It was clearly red.

A man was talking to him now, and there was that woman with him. Were these the same people as before? Were they even people? People aren't supposed to ring.

“Are you people?” It took him a second to realize his body had said it.

The man tilted his head, frowning. The woman looked worried and put her hand on the man's arm. Maybe it was a hard question for them.

“I said, are you okay?” the man asked.

“That's a sentence! People make sentences.” He grinned back at the man. It was nice of the man to stop ringing at him. “Thank you.”

The man and woman looked at each other, and kept frowning. The woman said something unintelligible. The man looked at him again.

“Do you need help? Can I take you to a doctor?”

“I need to...” Wait. What did he need? “Go. I'm going somewhere?”

“Where are you going?” the man asked, his soft brown eyes full of concern.

“Going to sleep.”

There was a hand on his back now, and the man was standing beside him, pushing him gently forward. The woman was on the man's other side. The world was looking stranger now, the cardboard replaced by blurs and shadows, and the sky was dimming. The man was murmuring something now in his ear.

“It's gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay. Please hang on just a little longer, we'll get you to a bed and then you can rest. Please be okay...”

He smiled at the man, still letting himself be pushed forward. His hand came up and stroked the man's cheek.

“Sentences,” he declared.

“Um. Yes. Sentences. Er, do you have any favorite sentences?” the man babbled, cheeks red.

The body stopped, suddenly realizing something vitally important. He turned fully towards his companion and cupped his face in his hands.

“You're the sky!”

“W-what?” the man squeaked.

“Sunset,” he explained patiently, tapping his thumbs on the man's flushed cheeks. “Night,” he ruffled the man's hair, “and stars,” he concluded, pointing at the man's eyes.

The woman giggled. Oh, right, she was there too.

They were in a room. When had they found a room? Oh well. It was fine. The sky-man was pulling a blanket over him. The world didn't look so fake and wrong anymore. He was feeling tired now. Going to sleep. Right. That's where he had been going.

“Hopefully you're just really drunk and you'll be back to normal tomorrow,” said the sky-man. “Good night, stranger.”

“Good night.”

#### June 6th, Hasetsu

Yuuri was trying very hard not to stare at the sleeping foreigner he'd picked up off the street last night. He was failing.

At first, he and Yuuko hadn't paid the man any attention, since he was just standing in place and looking around like most tourists did when they realized there was nothing to do in Hasetsu. But when their work at the ice rink had ended a few hours later, and they walked outside, the man was still there, looking lost. Yuuri had decided to take pity on him and help him find his way back to one of the local inns.

However, the man hadn't been responsive the first few times Yuuri had spoken to him. When he did respond, it was in slow, monotone non-sequiturs, and his gaze had been distant. Yuuri was reminded of how he sometimes shut down in the middle of his anxiety attacks, and his heart went out to the man. Most likely, the man was just coming down from some sort of drug high, but even if he was...Well, everybody deserved a safe place to sleep, right? So Yuuri and Yuuko guided him to Yu-Topia, his family's onsen, where his family gave the stranger a guest room to recuperate in.

It was definitely not because Yuuri found him attractive, as Yuuko had kept teasing him after the man had held Yuuri's face and compared it to celestial bodies.

In the clear morning light, Yuuri saw that the man was younger than Yuuri had initially assumed, due to the stranger's silvery hair. And now Yuuri was watching him sleep, mentally kicking himself for doing so. He took a deep breath, prepared himself, and spoke in English to wake the man up.

“Hey, um, it's breakfast time. Do you want to get up and eat with us?”

After a few seconds, the man stirred, and blinked blearily up at Yuuri. He began to say something, then cleared his throat.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

“It's breakfast time in the inn right now. You're welcome to join us. I mean, um,” Yuuri looked away, feeling like he was messing this up already. “I brought you here last night. You seemed kind of...out of it. No charge, just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

The man's face broke into a smile, and Yuuri felt his heart speed up.

“That's so kind of you. Thank you so much. And yes, I would love to join you.”

Yuuri led the man to the dining room, where the Katsuki family laid out breakfast every morning for the few guests who rose early enough to enjoy it. The silver-haired man was clearly more alert today, looking everywhere with an almost childlike enthusiasm, making eye contact and smiling at the random people they walked past. He seemed too cheerful for a hangover.

When they had both sat down with Yuuri's family and were about to eat, that's when everything went to hell.

“So, Yuuri,” Mari half-smiled, “It's not like you to bring home handsome strangers...”

She was speaking in English. Of course she was. Because what were big sisters for, if not mortifying their little brothers?

“Yuuri, then?” the man grinned at him. “Nice to meet you! Or meet you again, really. I'm afraid I don't remember yesterday very well.”

“Th-that's okay,” Yuuri blushed, looking away. “That's Mari Katsuki, my sister, and they are Toshiya and Hiroko Katsuki, my parents. My parents don't know as much English as Mari and I do, but we can translate.”

The man beamed, and waved at everyone. “Thank you for letting me stay with you!”

Mari shrugged. “Hospitality's just our way. And your name?”

“Oh, I don't know,” the man said, still smiling.

“What?” Mari blinked.

“I don't know what my name is.”

He seemed completely unconcerned by this statement, and was more focused on trying to use his chopsticks. Yuuri and Mari gawked at him.

Yuuri asked, “Uh, how much do you remember? Do you know where you are?”

The stranger paused, and tapped his chin, thinking for a few seconds. “I remember waking up here. And this is...Japan, I think? The signs look Japanese.”

Yuuri tensed up, the worry from last night creeping back in. “What do you remember from before today?”

“Not a thing!” the man shrugged, smiling again.

“Do you have any ID? Any wallet or phone that could help identify you?”

The man set down his chopsticks and patted his pockets. “Nope!”

Oh dear. Yuuri could feel his muscles seizing up with anxiety—not for his sake, this time, but for the foreigner who'd been stranded with no memories and no one to help him.

“Well, we could go to the police, see if anyone's looking for you,” Mari offered. “Or your country's embassy, if you can remember what country you're from.”

The silver-haired man frowned. “I'm not sure where I'm from, but I'd really prefer not to get the police involved...Not unless I really have to.”

“Oh?” Mari raised an eyebrow. “Why, are you some kind of criminal?”

“Mari!” Yuuri cried. “You can't just ask someone that!”

The man looked thoughtful. “I don't know. I don't remember doing any crimes, but then I can't remember anything else either. I just know I felt really uncomfortable when the police were mentioned. Sorry, I know how weird that sounds.”

“Well, at least let us get you checked out by a doctor, alright?” Mari huffed. “In case you hit your head or something.”

“Of course. I'd appreciate that.”

#### June 6th, St. Petersburg

“Coach Feltsman, why do you think—”

“Sir, is it true that Mr. Nikiforov was—”

“Have the police found any leads on—”

“Mr. Feltsman!—”

“Shut up! All of you!” Yakov roared at the reporters gathered outside the ice rink. It was horrible enough having a student who'd been like a son to him disappear. He did not need this pack of hyenas gorging themselves on Viktor's misfortune.

“I've said all there is to say. Go home. And stay away from my students!”

He stalked into the building, slamming and locking the door behind him. Mila, Georgi and Yuri were waiting for him. Their faces were downcast. Even Yuri, who covered up every hurt feeling with anger, was quietly sullen instead of his usual fire.

“Any news?” Mila asked, but her face crumpled as soon as she saw Yakov's expression.

He shook his head. “It's out of our hands now. Standing around moping isn't going to help anyone. Go warm up.”

After warming up and practicing their jumps and steps, Yakov had the skaters take turns putting on the music they had been considering for next season's routines. They would skate at will, with no particular plan in mind, while the music played. As the skaters visualized the melodies in their minds and determined what emotions they would convey through it, Yakov would watch their motions and draw his choreography ideas for their routines, except for Viktor, who choreographed for himself.

Georgi went first, and skated to the center of the ice, while Yakov, Mila and Yuri stood at the rink wall. Yakov picked up the remote to the sound system, and pressed the “play” button.

A fearsome, shrieking cacophony exploded all around them, and everyone at the rink jumped.

“That is not my song!” Georgi declared. His eyes darted around at the heavy, ominous drumbeats.

Yakov sighed, “It's Viktor's. He wanted to use [Stravinsky's _Rite of Spring_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IXMpUhuBMs).”

It was a difficult piece to adapt. The _Rite_ was full of unpredictable twists, mood swings, and no traditional melody. As a ballet, it required an entire company of dancers to act out its bombastic drums and haunting, primal notes. If any figure skater could do the _Rite_ justice, it was Viktor, but even for him it would be a struggle.

Viktor was missing, possibly dead or kidnapped. Nobody at the rink wanted to listen to a song that sounded like something out of a horror film. The skaters visibly relaxed when Yakov switched to Georgi's song.

Still, they were shaken and distracted for the rest of practice. Yakov couldn't get too angry at them for that. He was struggling to focus, too.

#### June 7th, Hasetsu

“That doesn't make sense.”

That was something Yuuri had hoped to never hear from a doctor.

He had gone into the clinic with the silver-haired man to act as a translator, and was dutifully interpreting between English and Japanese. Three different doctors had examined the man—a general physical, a brain scan, and a blood test—and they hadn't found a single thing wrong with him, except for the memory loss. In fact, he was in fantastic shape, and one of the doctors speculated that he had been a dancer, based on his strong legs, flexibility and grace. After seeing the man shirtless during the physical exam, Yuuri could believe it.

So now Yuuri, the silver-haired man, and the general physician were sitting in the examination room, baffled. Or at least, Yuuri and the doctor were baffled. The man with amnesia seemed perfectly at ease.

“I'm sure I'll be able to work something out,” he said, and winked at Yuuri. “And if I had to lose my memories, at least it happened in a beautiful town, and with excellent company.”

Yuuri reddened, as he often did around the other man. He turned to the doctor.

“Is there any other possible thing that could make someone lose their memories?”

The doctor paused for a few moments, and then said, “Well...very rarely, it is possible for amnesia to be caused by psychological factors, not physical ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“After extreme stress or trauma, the mind may not be able to cope with what happened to it, so it protects itself by locking the memories away. This is usually limited to the traumatic event itself, not forgetting one's entire life history. But the latter is possible.”

“Oh...Do we need to do anything? I mean, to help his memories come back?”

The doctor sighed. “Be there for him. Give him time and support. Avoid stressing him out or upsetting him, or trying to push him to get his memories back too quickly, as you might re-trigger the trauma.”

...So it was probably a good thing they hadn't gone straight to the police, Yuuri guessed. Most encounters with the police were not happy occasions, and who knew what might have happened to the guy in the past?

“Mind you, I'm not a specialist, and can't diagnose this for sure. You'd need a psychologist for that. But assuming it is a psychological cause, my advice stands.”

Yuuri translated the doctor's opinion to English, pausing frequently to check with the doctor to make sure he didn't leave anything out. The silver-haired man listened carefully, face solemn for once. He nodded in acknowledgment after Yuuri finished, but stayed silent, clearly coming to terms with it all.

Yuuri couldn't blame him for that; he still had trouble processing it himself. The idea of something so awful happening it could force someone to forget it all...that made Yuuri shiver.

He knew he'd have to get his family's permission, but...well, they did run an onsen, right? They were literally in the business of giving people a happy place to relax. They had plenty of empty rooms. Surely they could spare one?

Mari greeted them as they left the clinic. “So, how's your handsome stranger?” she asked, speaking in English to wind Yuuri up.

“Physically? Fine,” he replied. “Mentally? Fine, except that he can't remember who he is.”

“Any guesses as to why?”

“The doctor wasn't sure, but his best guess is that something traumatic happened to him.”

“Damn. That must have been rough,” she whistled. “Sorry, Shiro.”

“Shiro?” The man raised an eyebrow.

“Well, we can't just keep calling you 'handsome stranger'. Shiro means white. Like your hair.”

“Mari,” Yuuri groaned, “Isn't it kind of rude to point that out?”

“I like Shiro,” said the man.

“See?” Mari smirked.

“Fine, fine,” said Yuuri. “Okay, you're Shiro, at least until we learn your real name.”

It really took no effort to convince the Katsuki family to let the man—Shiro, now—stay with them until his memories returned, and that he would assist with the onsen to compensate them. Yuuri could practically hear his parents' hearts melting when he told them the doctor's theory. Mari rolled her eyes and muttered about getting back to work, but Yuuri caught the corner of her mouth twitching.

Yuuri's mother had stood up and hugged Shiro and promised to take care of him. He might not have understood the words, but he got the meaning well enough, and he hugged her back tightly.

If Yuuri's heart fluttered at the brilliant smile on Shiro's face, well, nobody needed to know about that.

#### June 8th, St. Petersburg

To Yakov's chagrin, the disastrous news had leaked out of Russia and spread throughout the global figure skating world. This meant that the story was no longer coming from fellow Russians who knew Viktor Nikiforov. No, the overwhelming majority of people talking now were people who'd never interacted with Viktor, and who had no clue what he was really like. Which meant that the internet was full of their drivel about what they thought had happened.

The more reasonable ones thought it was a kidnapping; Viktor was known to be wealthy, after all. It was plausible, but there had been no ransom note.

Some thought that Viktor had suffered an injury or illness and was too embarrassed to announce it publicly. Yakov scoffed at this: nothing could embarrass Viktor, and he would have told Yakov, at least.

Some people, who were obviously not skaters or coaches, thought he had been murdered by a jealous competitor. The real skaters were quick to shoot this idea down. Viktor was rather distant from other skaters, even from his own rinkmates, but he had always gotten along well when interacting with them. He had rivals but not enemies.

Some conspiracy theorists were even guessing that Viktor had been taken away or killed by a foreign government that was using the world of figure skating as a proxy for political conflict. Yakov didn't think this idea was even worth responding to.

Yuri had his own theory: “That stupid jerk probably just ran off because he was old and couldn't skate anymore!” Which was absurd, because Viktor had smashed his closest rival into second place by a huge margin in the last season. Even at twenty-seven, Viktor was indisputably the greatest figure skater alive. Besides, Viktor wouldn't abandon his dog like that.

The strangest part was that, when Yakov had visited Viktor's apartment to feed Makkachin, Viktor's wallet and passport were gone, but his phone and computer weren't. Viktor never went anywhere without his phone, and there was no sign of a robbery or struggle in the apartment. The police had checked with Viktor's bank and credit card company, but there had been no transactions since before Viktor had disappeared, and therefore no way to track him, assuming he had his wallet in the first place.

It just didn't make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings (skip if you don't want vague spoilers): This story portrays mental health issues, including dissociation, depression, amnesia and a flashback to past trauma. There are violent deaths for a couple of un-named minor characters in the story's past. A major character from canon temporarily goes by a different name.
> 
> I highly recommend checking out the Rite of Spring. Not just for this story, but because it's a strange, creepy and awesome song in its own right.


	2. Shiro

#### June 11th, Yu-Topia, Hasetsu

Shiro proved to be a good worker, even though he needed Yuuri or Mari to translate whenever their parents explained something to him. He couldn't say much to the onsen's customers, who usually only spoke Japanese, but he was good at cooking, cleaning, organizing things, and heavy lifting. He kept his room neat and would automatically tidy up messes or clutter when he saw them. He was an early riser, disciplined, and never complained about feeling tired or sore. He greeted everyone with a smile even if he didn't know who they were, did his best to be polite, and never got offended by others.

He was also far too attractive for his own good. Many of the onsen's customers would turn their heads when he walked by. Several had tried to invite him into the onsen with them. He always played up the “clueless foreigner” angle and pretended not to understand their flirtatious gestures. Yuuri kind of wanted to see Shiro in the onsen, too, but he suspected he would pass out from the resulting nosebleed.

When the weekend arrived, Yuuri went to his part-time job as a skating instructor at Ice Castle Hasetsu, the local ice rink. Shiro was happy to tag along and see more of the town, and Yuuri got to introduce him to the Nishigori family. Yuuko was delighted to see that Shiro was doing better now, even if his memories were still missing.

In retrospect, letting the triplets Lutz, Loop and Axel meet Shiro was probably a bad idea. They shrieked and surrounded him immediately, chattering in Japanese.

“Do an Ina Bauer!”

“No, no, a quad flip!”

“Can you show me how to skate backwards?”

Yuuko pulled them away, scolding, “Girls! Girls! You shouldn't tease Mr. Shiro. He might not speak Japanese but it's still very rude.”

“Mr. Shiro?” Lutz muttered incredulously.

“Yes. It's not his real name, but he's lost his memory so we've nicknamed him Shiro for now.”

The girls seemed shocked, then gawked at him where he and Takeshi were talking close by. Shiro noticed them staring, and smiled. They blushed and squeaked until Yuuko cleared her throat to get their attention again.

“Well, we had to ask,” said Loop, “Just in case he was a world champion figure skater...”

The three children looked at each other, and giggled.

“No teasing,” Yuuko insisted.

“No teasing,” they agreed, still giggling.

Shiro missed this entire exchange due to the language barrier. Yuuri figured that was probably for the best. There was no need to intimidate the poor guy with advanced skating techniques that he'd probably never heard of before.

#### June 11th, Ice Castle Hasetsu

Shiro had felt something was off as soon as he entered the ice rink building.

It was as if he was suddenly far away from his own body. Or as if he was a puppet, being pulled along on strings. He could see himself moving, talking, and generally acting normal, but it didn't feel like he was the one doing it.

But that was impossible, right? He knew, logically, that he was himself and that he was the one in his body. He knew that. But it didn't feel true.

He tried to focus on what Yuuri was saying. Yuuri was pointing at the ice, the gate, the skate rental. Shiro managed to smile and nod at the appropriate times, and was relieved that his body would still listen to him. Then he mentally scolded himself, because of course it would, it was his body after all. Even if it felt like it was far away and hazy right now.

He and Yuuri were by the rink wall now. Shiro couldn't remember walking there. Yuuri was introducing a man and woman: Yuuko and Takeshi. Apparently Yuuko had met Shiro before, the night before Shiro had woken up with amnesia. They spoke some English, but occasionally Yuuri would help translate.

“So you're Shiro now!” she said, “Welcome to Hasetsu! How are you feeling?”

“I'm great, thanks to you and Yuuri,” he grinned.

He was not feeling great. He wasn't feeling much of anything right now, in fact. But the lie and the smile had happened so smoothly, it hadn't even felt like he was the one saying it.

“You definitely sound better now!” she beamed, “I'm glad. I was really worried about you.”

At that point the Nishigoris' three daughters wandered in, and practically launched themselves at him in excitement, shrieking in Japanese. Yuuko dragged them off to the side and started scolding them, while Takeshi apologized for their rudeness.

“They're not usually this excitable,” he said, “We'll have a talk with them about manners later.”

“It's quite alright,” Shiro said, with a chuckle that he didn't feel. “It's a pleasure to be here today.”

He glanced over at the children, who were staring at him, and smiled. They startled at his attention and blushed.

He was getting an odd feeling of deja vu, as if he was following a script he had done hundreds of times. But the familiarity was coupled with feeling strange and unfamiliar towards himself.

Yuuri was saying something now about his shift starting, and he and Takeshi went behind the counter at the front desk. Yuuko was checking over the Zamboni and preparing to resurface the ice. Shiro watched them getting ready for the afternoon crowd, feeling like he was drifting yet standing still.

“Hey, Shiro, do you want to skate?” Yuuko was talking to him.

Skating? He—

The world seemed to lurch on its side, and the realization hit him like a tidal wave: he had amnesia. He'd forgotten everything. He had no idea who he was or what he'd left behind. Was there even a “him” left, now that his memories were gone? Was that person dead? Shiro felt like he might have been dead, although rationally he knew that was impossible.

“Shiro?” Yuuko said, her brow pinching in concern.

“Oh, no thank you!” he smiled. The whole time, he hadn't stopped smiling. “I think I'd like a bit of sun, actually. I'll be outside, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, giving him a weak smile in return.

He took a seat on one of the benches outside. The world felt cloudy and muted around him.

The door to the rink opened, and Yuuri walked out. He bit his lip, looking pensively at Shiro for a moment, before he asked, “Want company?”

Shiro patted the space next to him on the bench. Yuuri sat down.

For a few minutes, they were silent. Then, without looking at him, Yuuri spoke.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course, Yuuri.” Another automatic lie.

“Yuuko says you blanked out when she asked if you wanted to skate,” Yuuri spoke softly. Too softly. Shiro hadn't wanted to worry him.

“I'm fine, really,” he said lightly, “Just got distracted for a moment.”

Yuuri was quiet for a few more seconds.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I pretend to be happy because I don't want people fussing over me, and drawing attention to how unhappy I really am. I just want them to leave me alone. And other times I want them to stay with me but I don't know how to ask for it.”

Shiro felt the smile finally slipping off his face.

“So,” Yuuri continued, “What do you want me to do right now?”

He hesitated. This was Yuuri, the kind and thoughtful man who'd taken care of him when Shiro was vulnerable and disoriented, who'd gone above and beyond to help a stranger, and who seemed to like Shiro the way he was, when even Shiro didn't know who he was. Yuuri...was a good man.

On the other hand, finding the words and pulling them out of his mouth felt rusty and alien.

“Stay,” he finally said. “Please.”

“Alright. I'm going to let Yuuko know, and then I'll be back.” He stood up.

“Oh. Right. It's your shift, I don't want to interrupt—”

“No, this is important,” Yuuri insisted, turning to Shiro. He put a hand on Shiro's shoulder and gave him a serious look. “You are important. I'll be back.”

As he watched Yuuri walk back inside, a funny feeling settled in Shiro's chest. He wasn't sure what it was, but it wasn't bad. It was kind of nice to be feeling something again after being numb and unreal before.

He looked around, and the world was clear now. He could see people in the streets nearby going about their business. He felt the sunlight and a cool breeze on his skin. Hasetsu was a quiet town, with only the occasional rumble of a car or distant call of seagulls to break the tranquility.

Yuuri came back outside, and sat down next to Shiro again, watching the town with him.

“It's beautiful out here,” Shiro murmured.

Yuuri smiled and leaned back. “It is.”

“I hadn't noticed until now,” Shiro continued. “I've been here nearly a week. But it didn't feel real. I didn't feel real, in there,” he tilted his head back toward the ice rink building. Yuuri looked over his shoulder and nodded.

“I don't know what happened in there,” Shiro admitted. “I didn't feel like myself. I'm not sure what 'myself' would mean. It's not like I can remember who I am, anyway. Which is another thing. I knew I had lost my memories, but it didn't really hit me until now.”

Yuuri nodded. His face was sad, and it sent a pang of guilt through Shiro.

“That must be really scary,” Yuuri reflected, looking at the ground.

Scared? Was that what he'd felt?

“No, I don't think I felt scared. Just...adrift. Disconnected from the world. It felt like somebody else was talking through my body. I know that's impossible and crazy. It just felt weird.”

“I don't think it's crazy,” Yuuri said gently, “Sometimes I'll get really bad anxiety attacks, and it will feel like I'm not in control of my body anymore, or like the world isn't real.”

Shiro wasn't sure what to say to that. He didn't want Yuuri to suffer from anxiety attacks, but a small and selfish part of him was happy to not be the only one to feel unreal. He settled on just placing his hand over Yuuri's on the bench. When Yuuri looked over at him, Shiro gave him a weak but genuine smile. Yuuri smiled back.

That funny feeling appeared in Shiro's chest again. It was warm and relaxed, and he wanted to hold onto it forever. He felt his smile widen into a grin, still looking directly at Yuuri, who flushed adorably and looked away.

“F-feeling better now?” he stammered.

Shiro couldn't stop grinning. “I am. Thank you, Yuuri. You're amazing.”

“I, um, uh, you too,” Yuuri squeaked.

“Now,” Shiro said, standing up, “I know you've got work. I'm going to return home and see if I can help your parents with anything. I'll see you tonight, okay?”

“Alright,” Yuuri was still blushing, “Um, can you find your way home?”

Shiro recited the directions to the onsen easily. It wasn't a long walk, after all. Yuuri nodded, and turned to go back inside.

The whole way home, Shiro felt alive.

#### June 20th, St. Petersburg

Yuri Plisetsky was no fool.

He had been scouring the internet for weeks now, and had set up a news alert for any new articles about Viktor's disappearance. He had dissected and rejected every theory he could find about how and why Viktor had disappeared. All of the people posting were idiots.

He kept looking, though. He'd rather read other people's ideas than think about what had happened the last time he'd seen the older skater.

Viktor had promised to choreograph Yuri's short program for the upcoming season. He hadn't shown anything to Yuri yet, though, and since the season was steadily creeping closer, Yuri had gotten increasingly annoyed. So he'd yelled at Viktor about it during practice one day, and Viktor had cheerfully admitted he'd forgotten.

“What the hell, old man?!” Yuri had snapped, “Is your memory going already? You promised!”

“Oops, sorry!” Viktor had said. He didn't look sorry at all.

“Have you even started on your own program yet?” he'd snarled, “Or have you just been wasting everybody's time?”

“Inspiration cannot be forced, Yuri,” Viktor had said, smiling condescendingly.

“Well, if you're not going to take the competition seriously, get off the ice and make room for skaters who will!”

“Yura! Vitya!” Coach Feltsman's rumble had interrupted, “That's enough. Both of you, back to practicing now.”

They had, and Yuri tried not to let his frustration bleed through to his step sequences, but it was hard to be motivated when Viktor was just...goofing off, going through techniques at random without any apparent purpose. Coach Feltsman gave Viktor more leeway than he did for any of the other skaters, which pissed Yuri off even more. Yuri knew it was because Viktor choreographed his own routines, so he needed the freedom to experiment, but it still seemed horribly unfair.

Viktor left practice early that day without talking to anyone, and just smiled and waved when Coach Feltsman yelled at him not to slack off. Yuri had assumed that was that. It had felt like a pretty typical, if frustrating day.

Then Viktor hadn't shown up to practice the next morning, and wouldn't answer his phone. He wasn't at his apartment when Georgi had gone to find him. Coach Feltsman had grumbled about “probably up to no good somewhere,” and told the rest of the skaters to get on with it. The day after that had been a rest day. As usual, no one had tried to contact Viktor, as they knew he liked to spend his rest days alone.

When Viktor didn't show up on the third day, and Coach Feltsman had found Viktor's phone left behind in an empty apartment, that's when he had called the police.

More than two weeks had passed since then, and the media shitstorm was not slowing down. Yuri felt like he had read the same article fifty different times from a hundred different websites and blogs. The tag #wheresviktor was trending on every social media platform. He caught the news station anchors repeating each other's buzzwords as they tried to give updates on a situation which hadn't changed at all.

Yuri skimmed it all on his phone, only half paying attention. It was obnoxious. But helped him avoid thinking about what his last words to Viktor had been.

#### June 22nd, Hasetsu

Shiro had boundless energy. He went for a run every morning and evening, taking a different route every time. Unfortunately, his Japanese was still marginal, and he couldn't read it at all, and he had no phone. After he got lost a few times, Yuuri took to joining him on those runs.

Yuuri normally didn't like getting up an hour before dawn, but spending time with Shiro was incentive enough. Shiro's eyes would sparkle every time Yuuri read words out to him, and he asked Yuuri to explain everything that they saw. Shiro got excited about Hasetsu Castle even though it was fake, he wanted to make an offering at the temple that Yuuri had passed by every day for years, he wanted to visit the fish market and the waterfall and go swimming in the ocean. He waved and smiled at everyone, and beamed whenever he was able to understand a word or two.

Yuuri admired Shiro's enthusiasm for the small town. Yuuri liked Hasetsu well enough, but he had always longed to travel the world. He wanted to see great cultural centers like Beijing, New York, and Vienna. The only reasons he hadn't were because his anxiety spiked whenever he strayed from his weekly routine, and he didn't have any close friends who wanted to travel with him.

On these runs, Yuuri also discovered the real reason why Shiro kept getting lost: he would stop and pet every dog they encountered, forgetting to pay attention to where he was going. This was often to the amazement of the dogs' owners who would say, “He's usually so shy...” while said shy dog had climbed into Shiro's lap and was licking his face. He had even taken to carrying a leash and dog treats with him while running, just in case he needed to rescue a stray, which had happened multiple times now. Yuuri found it ridiculously cute.

In the evening, they sometimes finished by taking a dip in the onsen, which Shiro had declared was heaven on Earth. Yuuri was half inclined to agree, and half inclined to cry out of frustration at seeing Shiro naked. Why did Shiro insist on doing stretches? Why was he so flexible, and why couldn't Yuuri get those mental images out of his head?

“Yuuri, we should go out on a date!”

They were both naked and in the water, and Shiro was holding his hand while gazing deeply into Yuuri's eyes. Yuuri thought he must have been as red as a strawberry.

“You know that dog cafe that we found this morning? We should go there!”

“Wait, you mean like a...” Yuuri gulped, “Like a couple-date or a friend-date?”

“A couple-date! If you're interested, of course,” Shiro's smile softened a little. “If not, then being friends is good too. But I do think you're very cute.”

“Oh. Um. Wow.” Yuuri felt like half of his brain had shut down.

Shiro. Stunning, kind, charming Shiro. Wanted to date. Him.

For a brief moment, Yuuri felt an incredible joy blooming in his chest, and he was about to scream “Yes!” when reality slapped him in the face.

“Yuuri?” Shiro tilted his head, which was really just unfairly attractive of him.

“You've got amnesia,” Yuuri said, trying not to choke on the words. He pulled away and unlinked their hands. “What if you already have a partner? You've probably got a family somewhere that's worried about you.”

“Oh,” Shiro's face fell, “That's possible, I guess.”

Yuuri couldn't stand to see Shiro looking like that. So he hastily added, “I mean, I really do like you, and I'd definitely want to date you if, um, I knew it was okay. I just...”

“I get it,” Shiro said, “That's definitely the responsible approach. But Yuuri,” he brightened a little, “if it turns out I don't have a partner, can we date then?”

Yuuri smiled back. “I'd like that.”

“Right then! I'm going to try to remember as soon as I can!”


	3. Fragments

#### July 6th, St. Petersburg

A month had passed. The ISU Grand Prix assignments had just been released. For the first time in ten years, Viktor Nikiforov's name was not on the list.

Most of the media storm around his disappearance had died down by now, but another ripple went through the online figure skating community. Several fan communities discussed petitioning the ISU to include Viktor's name anyway, arguing that there was still time for him to reappear, and that he definitely deserved the spot.

Christophe Giacometti, the skater who had competed against Viktor for nine years and who had come closest to dethroning the “living legend,” released an old selfie of him and Viktor in their nations' jackets, with the caption, “It's not the same without you, darling. #ISUgrandprix2016 #wheresviktor”

Phichit Chulanont was one of several skaters new to the Grand Prix, and tweeted, “hey @v-nikiforov, I wanted to compete against you! come back soon! #ISUgrandprix2016 #wheresviktor”

“10 years isn't a bad run,” read one particularly controversial post, “but it's time for a new era in skating! #ISUgrandprix2016”

“It feels more final now,” Mila murmured as she scrolled through the flamewar in that post's comments. “People are starting to give up.”

“Please, figure skating didn't revolve around him,” Yuri snapped. But he stayed seated next to her and kept reading over her shoulder.

“Aww, you miss him too!”

“Shut up! I'm just mad because he still owes me a short program!”

Yuri had eventually just taken the routines that Coach Feltsman had prepared for him. He wasn't happy about it, but he could deal. He could still win. It wasn't like he needed Viktor, after all.

#### July 8th, Hasetsu

Shiro found it impossible to trigger his memories. He remembered skills and general knowledge about the world, and he could remember everything since he had first met the Katsukis, but his life prior to that was a stubborn blank.

He and Yuuri had even gone to a psychologist, and she had asked the same questions the physician had, and a few more besides. Yuuri translated for them again.

“Do you ever feel detached from yourself? As if you're not a person, or you're passively observing your own body move? Like a doll, or perhaps a robot?”

Shiro hadn't been expecting that. He froze in the client chair, although the psychologist's office was much homier and more comfortable than the clinic had been. After a second, he nodded.

“Can you describe a time when you felt this way?” she asked gently.

“The ice rink where Yuuri works. I didn't feel like me anymore. Nothing felt real until Yuuri sat with me outside and talked to me.”

“The world around you didn't feel real either?”

“No.”

She had asked a few more questions in that vein, all of them difficult to answer. Shiro didn't know how to put it into words, and he wasn't sure how much of it could translate into Japanese. But the psychologist seemed to get the gist of what he meant.

“I believe you're describing dissociative experiences,” she said, and added the English word. “Dissociation means that you or the world around you does not feel real. You are not going crazy. It is common in people who have dissociative amnesia—amnesia that is caused by severe stress or trauma.”

“So...not crazy,” he repeated, and let out a breath of relief.

“That's right. I think your exact diagnosis is a dissociative fugue, a kind of amnesia in which you forget all your personal memories and feel a strong urge to travel or wander. The fugue is probably what brought you to Hasetsu. Fugue is very rare, but since you've had other dissociative experiences it seems more likely in this case.”

“Can we fix it?”

“You will remember who you are eventually, although you might not get all of your memories back. The fugue will resolve itself. Usually it only takes a few days, but rare cases may take weeks or months. However, as your memories return, it's likely that you will remember extremely stressful or traumatic things. You may experience nightmares, flashbacks, mood swings, or other symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Yikes. Whatever had happened to cause the amnesia, it had not been something happy. Yuuri squeezed Shiro's hand as he translated.

“I recommend that you avoid major stress and find people you can talk to, people who will support you when you're struggling emotionally. The best treatment is love and patience. Do you have people like that in your life right now?”

Shiro smiled, and Yuuri's hand felt warm in his.

"I think I'll manage."

#### July 10th, Hasetsu

They were visiting Minako's bar one evening, and Shiro had lit up when she mentioned her ballet studio. He wanted to see it, so she had tossed Yuuri the studio keys and told them to make themselves at home. She had also winked conspiratorially in a way that Yuuri pretended not to see.

The studio was right upstairs, and Yuuri had smiled at the way Shiro examined everything in the room eagerly. He was so fascinated that Yuuri offered to show him some ballet positions, drawing on his rusty knowledge of the forms. Yuuri hadn't kept up his training after he'd left for university, and he could no longer do the advanced techniques, but the basics of alignment, turnout and _ballon_ would never leave him.

Then Shiro had asked, “May I try?”

He'd stood at the barre, and at first he was just hesitantly copying Yuuri, but his form was excellent, and he easily matched Yuuri's _rélevés_ and _élevés_ positions. They went through a series of warm-ups. Then, to Yuuri's shock, he executed a speedy _chainés_ turn and a _fouetté_ spin. _Développé, battement dégagé_ , then an _entrechat_ jump, with the grace and weightlessness of a professional. Yuuri gaped.

“I think,” Shiro mused, returning to the barre, “I've done this before.”

Yuuri nodded. He didn't trust himself to be coherent while Shiro was bending his ankle up over his head.

Minako joined them as Shiro was doing a series of deep arabesques. She nodded approvingly.

“Aha, the Vaganova method!” she observed. “You're a danseur!”

“Possibly. The muscle memory is there,” he said, straightening up.

“Do you remember any dances you learned?”

He tapped his chin and thought for a moment.

“I don't think so, but the motions are familiar. It's tricky since I lack the shoes for it.”

“Interesting,” she mused. “But that gives me an idea! If we look up missing danseurs, your name might come up.”

It was a good idea, but several hours later, the three of them hadn't found any danseurs who looked like Shiro. They went on to choreographers and dance teachers, and still found nothing. But it was the biggest hint they had found yet about what Shiro's past had been like.

And when Shiro wanted to learn a _pas de deux_ with Yuuri, Yuuri did not argue at all.

#### September 10 th, Hasetsu

Yuuri had started a list of everything he knew about Shiro, in case any of it helped identify him:

  1. Shiro spoke English, with an accent Yuuri couldn't identify. But he was picking up Japanese words and phrases quickly.
  2. He was good enough at ballet to be a professional dancer, the best guess for his occupation so far.
  3. He'd had some sort of trauma that caused his dissociative episodes.
  4. He adored dogs, and probably had one in his previous life.
  5. He was athletic and must have worked out frequently, possibly for his job.
  6. He was cheerful, outgoing and could charm people even when they didn't share a language.
  7. He was not self-conscious about nudity. At all. Which was both a blessing and a curse for Yuuri when they were in the onsen.
  8. He had a bunch of different smiles. There was his beaming smile, his devious smile, his apologetic smile, his excited smile, his confused-but-polite smile, and more. Yuuri's favorite was the small, soft, “surprised but deeply touched” smile, and his least favorite was the stiff “I'm unhappy but pretending to be fine so you won't worry about me” smile.



“Okay, now you're just writing a love letter,” Mari's voice interrupted him.

“Ack! Mari!” he yelped, scrambling to cover the sheet of paper with his hands. Too late. She was smirking at him.

Shiro had lived with them for three months now, and the Katsukis liked having him around. He seemed to have found a place for himself in Hasetsu, and the locals now recognized him and greeted him by name. He had worked out how to buy things and could now run most errands on his own. He could welcome guests at the onsen and handle their most common requests and questions. Yuuri's parents had bought him a phone, and he used a translator app to help him get through Japanese conversations. His grammar was terrible, but his clear desire to learn and friendly nature made most people patient with him.

A small, selfish part of Yuuri hoped that Shiro would never get his memories back. Or that he would only remember enough to know that he was single, so he and Yuuri could finally start dating. But then Yuuri would always think about the people who must have been missing Shiro, and he felt guilty, almost as if he were at fault for keeping the probable-danseur from returning home.

At least Shiro seemed to be happy. He had formed a solid routine of running with Yuuri every morning and evening, and assisting with the inn and onsen on weekdays and during heavy workloads. While Yuuri taught classes at the ice rink on weekends, Shiro would practice ballet with Minako. Or, if she had a class to teach, she used him to demonstrate many of the moves, especially paired routines she couldn't do by herself.

Best of all, he hadn't had a dissociative episode in weeks.

Perhaps that's why he proposed to visit the ice rink again. Yuuri had been uncertain, but Shiro insisted.

“You love skating. It's important to you,” he said, “And that means it's important to me. I want to know what your work is like.”

Yuuri had blushed at that. Even now, Shiro could often catch Yuuri off guard with just how openly affectionate he was. But Yuuri had conceded, and the next Saturday Shiro walked with him to the rink.

“Yuuri! Shiro!” Yuuko had called, “Great to see you both again!”

Yuuri whispered to Shiro, “It's okay to leave if you need to. And if you want to talk to me or Yuuko just let us know, okay?”

“I will,” Shiro promised.

Yuuri was inwardly relieved to see that Shiro's face was serious as he said this. It meant that he wasn't trying to hide behind a fake smile.

As Yuuri retrieved and laced up his skates, he kept half an eye on Shiro. The other man sat down by the magazine racks and was tapping on his phone. To Yuuri, it seemed like a bit of a shame to go to an ice rink and not even look at the ice, but he decided to let Shiro do things at his own pace. He mentioned this opinion to Yuuko, who agreed to check on Shiro regularly while Yuuri was on the ice, and to not offer him skates unless Shiro asked first.

It was a typical shift, with a small herd of children arriving for the 1 o'clock class. Yuuri enjoyed working with the kids, because skating was something he was actually quite good at, and he loved seeing their faces as they learned that they could do it, too. Kids were easy to impress, and not as self-conscious as adults, so they usually threw themselves right into it.

At one point, as he was helping one of the kids up from a fall, Yuuri happened to look over toward the side of the rink. Shiro was there. He was leaning with his arms over the rink wall, and he was watching Yuuri with a smile. Yuuri was pretty sure it was real. He waved when Yuuri looked at him.

After the first class was over, but before the next class started, Yuuri skated up to Shiro.

“How are you doing?” Yuuri asked.

“Pretty good. It was kind of weird at first, but mainly because I was waiting for the dissociation to come back. It never actually did. When you started teaching I focused on watching you, and that helped.”

“Me?”

“You love the ice,” Shiro smiled. “You look so happy to be there. I can feel it from all the way over here.”

“Wow, thanks.”

Yuuri had gotten  compliments on his technical proficiency in skating, but never something about his sheer joy in it.

“Did you ever think of competing?” Shiro asked.

“Oh, no,” Yuuri ducked his head, “I always got so anxious being in school performances as a child and having to read things to the class. I would have been way too scared to enter a competition, having to perform in front of all those people...”

“You seem to do great in front of the kids, though.”

“Kids are easy, just show them a jump and a spin and they'll think you're amazing,” Yuuri chuckled.

“You _are_ amazing,” Shiro countered, “You share your knowledge of something you love with people, and you show them how they can love it, too. They discover something wonderful and happy thanks to you. That's fantastic, Yuuri.”

Yuuri was sure that he was blushing furiously again. Shiro was leaning forward, his hand in Yuuri's, and he had an unmistakeable tender look in his eyes. With Yuuri in skates, they were at the same height, and if Yuuri leaned just a little forward too then...

“Mr. Shiro!” called the high-pitched voices of the Nishigori triplets, speaking in Japanese. “You're back!”

Yuuri and Shiro startled, jumping away from each other. The three girls ran up to Shiro and giggled madly, alternating between looking at him and grinning at each other.

“Oh, hello girls, what can I do for you?”

“We want a selfie with you please!”

Yuuri translated the request, since it seemed harmless enough. Shiro happily obliged, and Yuuri held the camera while Shiro picked up each girl one at a time, then posed for a group photo with all three of them. Yuuri had to admit that the effect was very cute. Then the girls held up their skates and asked Shiro to sign them.

Yuuri did not translate that, but instead told the girls, “Remember what your mother said? No teasing.”

“We're not teasing!” cried another girl, “We just really like Mr. Shiro!”

“He can sign it as Mr. Shiro if he wants!” piped up another.

“Or as Shiro Katsuki!”

Yuuri waved at Yuuko to get her attention, and told her what the girls were up to in Japanese when she came over. She confiscated their phone and marched them away, prompting much wailing from the girls.

“What was that all about?” Shiro asked.

“I think Yuuko's girls have a bit of a crush on you.”

“Oh, well, pity for them; I've already got my eye on a certain skating teacher,” he winked. “And did I hear a 'Shiro Katsuki' in there?”

Yuuri reddened. Again. “You say things like that on purpose, don't you,” he accused.

“Guilty!” Shiro laughed. “But I really do like the sound of that name...If it's okay with you.”

“Please,” Yuuri rolled his eyes, “Mom and Dad have practically adopted you already.”

Shiro's responding grin, which was big and crooked and he tried to hide it by ducking his head, was Yuuri's new Favorite Smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some psychology facts, if you're interested:
> 
> Dissociative amnesia is a real mental condition, and I'm trying to portray it as accurately as possible. Dissociative fugue is a rare sub-type of it. The psychologist here asks questions about depersonalization and derealization, two other types of dissociation. The symptoms, causes and recommended treatment are all true to life. Hitting someone over the head or trying to shock them into remembering are bad ideas, and usually just re-traumatize a person instead of helping.
> 
> Most people will have at least one dissociative episode in their lives. It's usually not a problem, not as severe as what's shown in this story, and goes away soon on its own. But if dissociation happens regularly, or causes a person distress, getting help for it is a good idea.


	4. Choreography

#### October 2nd, Hasetsu

Shiro did not skate the first few times he accompanied Yuuri to the rink. Yuuri often caught him looking wistfully at the ice, and he cheered for Yuuri whenever Yuuri indulged in showing off a little. But he made no move to skate for himself for a long time. When he did, he asked if he could try when the rest of the rink was empty.

“Sure, as long as you both make sure everything's put away and you lock things down when you leave,” Yuuko said. “Stick around after normal hours on Sunday.”

That day, the Nishigoris went home at the usual time, leaving Yuuri and Shiro to skate alone. Shiro seemed somewhat tense as he removed his shoes and laced up the skates.

“You know we can stop at any time if you want to,” Yuuri reminded him.

“I know,” he said, nodding stiffly. “I want to do this.”

Yuuri didn't blame Shiro for wanting to skate alone. Yuuri had also been extremely anxious about people watching him skate, until teaching it to others had forced him to get over it. Yuuri took Shiro's hand and led him onto the ice.

“Something's wrong,” said Shiro, looking at his feet. “Not my head. The skates.”

“Do they not fit properly?”

“They fit fine, but I thought they would feel firmer. More stable.”

“That's normal. Most people feel unstable on the ice until they get used to it.”

Shiro was doing very well for a beginner, actually. He mimicked Yuuri's steps and seemed to instinctively know how to push, stop, and control his speed and direction. He didn't wobble or even lean much on Yuuri. However, he did continue to hold Yuuri's hand.

“See, you're doing really well,” Yuuri tried to encourage him.

Shiro just hummed absently. He was frowning, deep in thought. He kept looking between his skates, Yuuri, the ice, and the viewing areas above the rink. Yuuri decided to start moving again, and noted with interest that Shiro could follow even while distracted and looking away.

“Do you think you've skated before?” Yuuri asked.

Shiro murmured, “Are we really alone?”

“Yes, we are,” Yuuri assured him, thinking that Shiro was nervous.

“I feel like I'm being watched,” said the other man, still looking around unhappily. “I know there's no one there. I don't see or hear anyone there. But it still feels like—”

He broke off abruptly, and shook his head. He dropped Yuuri's hand and ran his fingers through his hair, sighing.

Yuuri watched him closely, feeling increasingly concerned. “What does it feel like?”

Shiro grimaced. “Like I'm a puppet again. Dancing on strings for the audience.”

“Do you want to leave the ice?”

“Just give me a break for a while,” he said, and skated on his own back to the rink gate, his movements smooth and well-honed.

He had definitely skated before.

Yuuri caught up to him just outside the rink gate, where Shiro had stopped to peer around the top of the rink wall.

“Something wrong?” Yuuri asked.

“Where are my skate guards?”

“You don't have any skate guards. These are rental skates.”

“Oh. Right.”

Shiro sat down on a bench facing away from the rink, and Yuuri sat next to him. Shiro closed his eyes and took a few slow breaths, a gesture Yuuri recognized from his own history of anxiety attacks and dissociation.

“Grounding questions?” Yuuri suggested, referencing an exercise that they had used several times now.

It was a series of basic questions Yuuri had been taught to answer when he felt unreal: What's your name? What's the date? Where are you? How did you get here? What's going on right now? It helped him get a sense of being oriented to reality again.

“It's October 2nd, 2016, 8pm,” Shiro began. He knew the questions by rote now, and merely recited the answers: “My name is Shiro. I'm in Hasetsu, Japan, at the Nishigoris' ice rink. I walked here with Yuuri. We've been skating and now we're taking a break.”

“Good, you're doing really good. And what kind of person are you?”

Shiro had added this question for the times when he didn't feel like himself. He answered it differently every time.

“I'm in my twenties,” he said, voice getting stronger, “I've been living with and helping out the Katsuki family. I like dogs, running, ballet, and visiting new places. I like Hasetsu and meeting people and learning Japanese. And I like Yuuri a lot but he's too stubbornly responsible to date me.”

He poked Yuuri and they both laughed.

“You got one part wrong,” Yuuri said, “It's 'Shiro Katsuki' now.”

“Oooh, how could I forget?” Shiro fake-gasped, “Your mother would be so mad at me!”

“Yeah right, she spoils you too much. No, she'd just give you a sad look and say, 'That's fine, sweetie, I understand.'”

“Oh god, that's worse,” Shiro groaned, leaning back and covering his face.

Yuuri laughed at him again. “How are you feeling now?”

“Real. Mostly.”

He reached around Yuuri's shoulder and hugged him from the side. Yuuri leaned into the touch, and they were silent for a while. Yuuri was relieved; it hadn't taken long for Shiro to re-orient himself this time.

“Yuuri, will you skate for me?”

“Eh?”

He looked up, and Shiro was smiling at him softly and stroking his thumb over Yuuri's shoulder, holding Yuuri to his chest, and Yuuri's brain could not handle this.

“I do love watching you skate,” Shiro added, “When I see how passionate you are to be on the ice, it makes me want to do that, too.”

Now that was just unfair.

So Yuuri re-entered the rink, and Shiro watched him from across the barrier.

“Any requests?” Yuuri joked.

“Do what you love. Have fun with it,” Shiro said, leaning forward again.

Right. He could do that.

Yuuri had never tried to create a routine, or watched how competitive skaters performed. He didn't want to negatively compare himself to them. But the moves and speed of figure skating were one of his greatest joys. With the help of Yuuko and Minako, he'd managed to master several spins, double jumps and connecting steps.

He wasn't sure how to go about things at first, so he just did a few moves at random. But Shiro seemed delighted by everything. His enthusiasm was infectious, and it was pretty awesome to be able to impress him like that. Yuuri was soon picking up speed and adapting some of his old ballet dances for inspiration. After wrapping up the coda to a _grand pas_ , he heard Shiro applauding and bowed.

“Yuuri!” Shiro exclaimed, “I just had an idea!”

“Yeah?” he said, skating over to talk.

“I could choreograph a routine for you!”

“You know how to do that?” Yuuri wondered.

Shiro's eyes sparkled. “Yeah! I often help Minako come up with short dances for her classes. A skating routine isn't that different. And you've definitely got the grace and skill to pull it off.”

Yuuri smiled at that. “That's great and all, but do you know enough about skating techniques for it?”

Shiro responded by naming every move on the ice Yuuri had made, and then critiquing how Yuuri had executed them.

“You've got great stamina, so you can perform longer routines and harder jumps at the end of the routines. Your jumps are a bit shaky, especially that triple toe loop, which you shouldn't be doing in those skates anyway. If you switch to better boots you'll be steadier and more precise, and you'll be less likely to injure yourself. Your connecting steps and spins are excellent though, I can really see Minako's influence in your form, which is great...”

Okay, that was a little much...“I think I get the picture, thanks.”

Shiro grinned. “So what do you think? Want me to draw up a routine for you?”

As if Yuuri could say no to that face.

“I've never done a whole routine before, but I'll try my best.”

“Yay!”

#### October 8th, Hasetsu

“Watch the alignment! Core steady! Now, up!”

When Shiro had said, “I'll choreograph a routine for you,” Yuuri had not expected that to mean, “I'll drill you on basics that you thought you'd mastered long ago and tell you everything you're doing wrong first. Oh, and you better buy competition-grade boots.” But that's what they were doing now.

“Your jumps are shaky,” Shiro had repeated seriously. “Because your form is off. It's not your fault. You never had a coach who could spot this and teach you how to fix it. The fact that you learned so much on your own already is seriously impressive, but you have to un-learn some bad habits, too.”

Yuuri understood the logic. He really did. But it was frustrating to have to relearn something he had thought he had down, and he was far more interested in learning the routine that he'd seen Shiro sketching in his notebook. He loved the music they had chosen together, and wanted to turn it into a story.

It had taken some time, because Shiro preferred classical composers, while Yuuri preferred modern artists, and most of the instrumentals in his music collection were from videogame soundtracks. But when Shiro had suggested the fourth movement of [Beethoven's _Hammerklavier Sonata_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5gPeDBUXyc), Yuuri had fallen in love with the song on the spot. It was a dramatic fugue that began softly, almost timidly, but steadily built up into hope and passion, tension and triumph. In his mind it sounded like waking up in the dawn light, and exploring a new world. He felt that he could pour all his self into performing it.

But first he had to satisfy Shiro's perfectionist side, and learn to land all of his jumps exactly right. He was only doing singles and doubles, but it was still challenging. Shiro kept picking at minor details that, quite frankly, Yuuri couldn't even see.

“Sorry,” he said, the rink barrier between them, he on the ice and Shiro off, “I honestly can't tell when I'm doing it one way or the other way.”

Shiro frowned, and Yuuri felt bad now because Shiro was getting frustrated, too. He felt like it was his fault for not being able to follow Shiro's directions.

“Wait here,” Shiro said, walking away.

He returned with a pair of skates, one of the good pairs not available to the rink's customers, and put them on. Yuuri's eyes widened at that. The choreographer had always seemed more comfortable on normal ground. But he skated right out to the middle of the rink and beckoned for Yuuri to follow.

“Watch me.”

Shiro took a few laps to warm up. Then he demonstrated a flawless double axel, one of the moves that had been giving Yuuri trouble. He explained what he'd done that Yuuri had been missing, and then proceeded to do the jump _wrong_. He still landed it, grimacing at the deliberate error, but it was obviously a bit more wobbly than the first try. Then he performed the jump correctly once more.

He turned back to Yuuri and grinned. “See?”

Yuuri's jaw dropped.

“Yuuri, you try now!”

Being able to see the error in action, and how the jump was supposed to look, did help a lot. Yuuri tried mimicking what he had seen Shiro do, and after a few more tries, he managed to do it.

“That's it! You got it!” Shiro crowed. “See, I knew you could do it! You're going to do so great at this routine!”

Yuuri smiled back, a little embarrassed but also pleased. “Could you show me the other jumps I was working on, too?”

“Of course!”

It was like a switch had been flipped: when he was showing Yuuri how to perform a move, Shiro's discomfort on the ice disappeared. He landed every kind of double jump perfectly, and even did a combo at Yuuri's request. He was graceful and sure, and looked almost weightless. Yuuri's own jumps improved quickly now that he could see the movements performed up close.

“I've been working on the routine,” Shiro said, skating in lazy circles after they'd finished jump practice. “It's far from ready, but I've got a few sequences drafted, if you want to see them.”

“I do!” Yuuri said quickly.

Shiro grinned, and launched into a path of spins, steps and jumps, and Yuuri could hear the sonata in his head. Even though the routine was unfinished, it was stunning. In Shiro's movements, the fugue took on a different story from what Yuuri had envisioned.

Shiro's new dawn was hopeful, but it was also _disorienting._ His motions often mismatched the song's chords, suggesting more than what the music alone implied, and making it impossible to guess what came next. Beneath the cheerful melody was an undercurrent of uncertainty. Dizziness, even. Exploration and discovery were fun, but they also meant being surrounded by the unknown.

Yuuri swallowed, and his fingers tightened on the hem of his shirt.

Going out in the sun too long got people burned.

But the _Hammerklavier_ was fundamentally a joyful song. As the sonata went on, Shiro resolved that subtle discordance. The strained cheerfulness became a childlike wonder and excitement, and an overwhelming love of living _._ Hope, even in uncertainty. Finding a new rhythm. Yuuri found himself smiling before he even realized it.

“Oh,” he thought to himself, “I'm in love.”

#### October 26th, Hasetsu

Shiro had revealed the finished routine for Yuuri a few days ago. He had even skated it for Yuuri, the music playing, and Yuuri could barely concentrate on the technical elements for all that he just wanted to watch Shiro. It was incredible, and Yuuri loved it. Then Shiro had delivered the kicker: Most of the jumps were actually supposed to be triples.

Oh, dear god.

Despite wincing at the price, Yuuri gave in and bought higher-quality boots. He had to admit that jumps and other high-pressure moves were much easier now. He could land his triple toe loop much more reliably, and Shiro wanted him to branch out to harder triples like the salchow and flip.

Since Shiro's skates weren't good enough to demonstrate triples, he advised Yuuri to look up videos of competitive figure skaters performing the moves instead. So, after they had finished practice and gone home one day, Yuuri did just that. He sat down in his room, turned on his laptop, and started clicking through figure skating videos on the internet.

And that's how Yuuri discovered Viktor Nikiforov.

Viktor Nikiforov was the five-time World champion, five-time Grand Prix Final champion, Olympic gold medalist, holder of several world records, widely known as a “living legend,” and the most decorated figure skater in history. He was considered unbeatable, with his closest rivals trailing him by more than thirty points.

Viktor Nikiforov had disappeared about five months ago, throwing the figure skating world into an uproar, two days before Shiro Katsuki had appeared in Hasetsu.

Viktor Nikiforov _was_ Shiro Katsuki. He wore Shiro's face and spoke with Shiro's voice and accent in interviews. But he carried himself differently: he acted like a confident, aloof Adonis, perfectly in control at all times, always ready with a smooth quip and a wink that he knew would drive the audience wild. Viktor Nikiforov was beautiful, charismatic, and untouchable.

“Yuuri! Hiroko and I made dinner!”

Yuuri startled, and there was Shiro in the doorway, eyes bright and smile wide. He was leaning slightly on the doorway, tired after skating practice followed by cooking and inn chores. There was flour dust where he'd wiped his hands on his old robe and a smear of soy sauce on his sleeve where he'd probably dropped his chopsticks. He looked... _human_.

Yuuri closed his laptop and stared at him for a second, just processing the image in front of him. Then he padded over to Shiro, and threw his arms around him. Shiro hugged him back gently, and held one arm around his waist while the other ruffled Yuuri's hair.

“You okay?” he asked.

Yuuri nodded into Shiro's shoulder, but didn't trust himself to speak. He just held on for a while, and Shiro let him. Eventually Yuuri pulled back, and took a deep breath. Shiro held out his hand, and Yuuri took it, and they walked towards the dining room.

“Thanks,” Yuuri whispered.

“Anytime.”

Dinner felt surreal for Yuuri. It was too normal; it felt as if he'd dreamed up the story of Shiro being an internationally famous skating legend. Yuuri kept thinking of him as “Shiro” in his head, not “Viktor.” Shiro was not acting like a skating legend; he was chatting with Toshiya about sake brands. His Japanese had improved a lot, but when the conversation turned towards tasting the differences between wines, his vocabulary failed him. He collapsed backward with a melodramatic groan of frustration. The rest of the family laughed at him.

“Yuuri! Words!” he cried jokingly, waving his arms.

With a chuckle, Yuuri took over, and started telling his parents about the skating routine he and Shiro were working on. This made him remember that, oh by the way, his friend was the most accomplished figure skater alive, and somehow he'd ended up wasting his time making something for Yuuri instead of astonishing the world with his own routines for the upcoming skating season.

A cold realization hit Yuuri then: He could offer nothing for Shiro that compared to the life of Viktor Nikiforov, which was full of travel, excitement, wealth, fame, passion, and one success after another. When Shiro remembered who he really was, he'd want to go back to his old life. If Yuuri was lucky, Viktor Nikiforov might send him a postcard or a signed poster, with that same charming politeness he used for the rest of his fans.

A hand laid over his woke him from his thoughts. Shiro was looking at him in concern, the others absorbed in their own conversation. Yuuri smiled back weakly and squeezed his hand.

He knew he was being silly. After all, he'd always known that Shiro had a past somewhere else, a home and people waiting for him, and that his relationship with Yuuri was temporary. Yuuri had known from the start that Shiro was, ultimately, a stranger that Yuuri knew nothing about. Shiro—Viktor Nikiforov—did not belong in Hasetsu.

“Grounding questions?” Shiro whispered.

Yuuri leaned over to whisper back, not wanting his family to be concerned.

“I'm Yuuri Katsuki, I'm at home in Hasetsu, it's October 26th 2016, I walked here from the ice rink with Shiro and I'm having dinner with my family.”

And also quietly freaking out about the Olympian gold medalist who was holding his hand and looking fondly into his eyes.


	5. Identity

#### November 1st, Hasetsu

“I have a confession to make,” Yuuri said during a morning run by the seaside.

Shiro looked over at Yuuri, frowned, and stopped. Yuuri had stopped a few paces back, and had hunched in on himself, looking away. Shiro wondered if this was about why Yuuri had been acting quiet and distracted for the past few days.

“Okay,” he said softly, keeping his expression open, “What is it?”

“I figured out who you are.”

“Oh, wow! Who am I, then?”

“Viktor Nikiforov.”

Shiro blinked. The name didn't sound familiar.

Yuuri watched him for a few seconds, a strangely...lost?...look in his eyes. The seagulls' cries and the rolling of the waves were the only sounds around them. Shiro could feel something heavy was in the air, but he wasn't sure what.

Then Yuuri spoke, “You're a figure skater. In fact, you're the most decorated skater in the world. They call you a living legend.”

It took Shiro a few moments to process that. He knew he was good, but he didn't think he was _that_ good.

“...Huh. Okay.”

Another lapse into silence. Yuuri's gaze flickered to Shiro, then darted away. Yuuri wrapped his arms around himself.

“Is that all?” he said, voice wavering.

“You're upset,” Shiro said, stepping towards Yuuri, “Why are you upset?”

“I'm sorry!" he blurted, "I should have told you immediately! I just, I was...Sorry.”

Shiro frowned a little. "What do you mean, immediately?"

"I found out a few days ago," Yuuri mumbled. "I found videos of you on the internet. But it was hard to believe, because everything still felt so _normal_. And I was..." He ducked his head. "I was selfish. I like having you here. But you have a right to know, and it wasn't right for me to hide it from you, even though..."

He was so quiet, Shiro had to lean forward to hear him better. "Even if what?"

“Even though you'll leave,” Yuuri said, eyes fixed on the sand.

"What makes you so sure I would?"

“Because y-you're this famous amazing skater, you're a star, you've got all that waiting for you. I'm just...” Yuuri waved his hands vaguely, “You should be skating and amazing the whole world, and here I am wasting your time instead...”

Shiro reached out an arm toward him, then let his arm drop. He wasn't sure if Yuuri would want to be hugged right now, when Shiro was apparently the reason he was so upset in the first place.

“All I know,” Shiro said, “is that you're my friend, and you're never a waste of my time. And you're hurting right now and I want to help.”

Yuuri swallowed. “Thanks. I'm okay, really. It's just. I. You're my friend too, and I don't want you to leave. But I know that's stupid because you have a life already and you'll want to go home...”

“Yuuri...Am I single?”

The question made Yuuri freeze. “What?”

“Do I have a spouse, romantic partner, anything like that?”

“Uh, no,” Yuuri answered, and reddened. “Sorry, I kind of looked you up online...”

Shiro felt his heart leap. “So that means we can date now!”

“Eh?!”

“Yuuri,” he insisted, “We agreed on this before, remember? If it turned out I was single, we'd start dating. I still want to go to the dog cafe, too.”

Yuuri looked up and stared at him.

“Or...” Shiro said nervously, “Do you not want to date anymore?”

“No, I do!” Yuuri exclaimed, “I just wasn't expecting that. Um. That you'd still want to be with me, even though you're...you've got thousands of fans who want you.”

Shiro smiled, and leaned in, “Well, I'm a fan of you too, so that makes us even, right?”

He took Yuuri's hand in his, laced their fingers together, and pulled them into a walk side by side. In his head, Shiro imagined the dulcet opening of the fugue from the _Hammerklavier_ : timid, yet sweet and full of promise. Like the new day rising around them.

“Let's go to the dog cafe after cleaning the rooms tomorrow,” he said, enjoying the feel of their hands together. “Sound good?”

“Yeah, great,” Yuuri mumbled, a smile starting to grow on his face.

Shiro smiled back. And then, because he figured he'd been waiting enough already, he leaned over and gave Yuuri a peck on the cheek.

Oh, how Shiro loved making Yuuri blush like that.

#### November 2nd, Hasetsu

“Yuuri! Help! I'm being attacked!”

Yuuri wasn't too worried. Shiro was not being attacked. He was lying on the grass covered in puppies.

The dog cafe was too cute for words. The staff had partnered with local dog rescue groups, so every dog was available for adoption. Every two hours, the dogs were switched out so that they could rest. There were two rescue group volunteers who supervised the dogs and handed out flyers with information about adoption, spaying and neutering, and affordable veterinary services. The cafe had two main rooms, a kitchen and an outdoor area with plenty of grass and space. The dogs were in colorful pens to the side in one room, but could be taken out and walked outside on leashes. Even the food at the cafe was safe for dogs.

It was impossible to feel sad while watching Shiro laughing and flapping him arms melodramatically while the puppies “attacked” him. Yuuri managed to get a picture with Shiro on his back, looking up at the camera in sheer joy while holding a shiba inu on his chest.

“We're not keeping him,” Yuuri said, because one of them had to be a responsible adult today.

“Aww...”

“And besides, didn't you want to hear about your past?”

“Can we do that while holding puppies?” Shiro pleaded.

“No, because you'll try to smuggle one home.”

“Darn, you caught me.”

Yuuri held a hand out, and Shiro took it, letting Yuuri pull him up. Yuuri grabbed the coffee and food they'd ordered, and picked a table in the cafe's non-dog-room so they could talk without getting distracted. He started talking as soon as they sat down.

“Okay, first off, you already have a dog of your own,” Yuuri started, figuring it was the best way to get Shiro out of “pet _all_ the dogs” mode.

“I do?” Shiro's face snapped towards him, “What breed? He or she? Do you have pictures?”

It was rather convenient that Viktor Nikiforov was so famous that almost his entire life had been publicized. This made it easy for Yuuri to look up information about him, even if it made him feel a bit like a stalker.

“His name is Makkachin,” Yuuri explained, bringing up a picture of the brown poodle on his phone. “He's a big poodle, and apparently very friendly.”

“Is he okay without me?” Shiro asked, a rare expression of worry on his face.

“He's fine. Your coach has been taking care of him.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathed, his whole body relaxing. “I can't believe I abandoned my dog. Poor boy...If he'd been hurt because of me...”

“It's okay,” Yuuri placed his hand on Shiro's arm. “You didn't mean to. I don't think you had any control over what happened. And again, he's fine.”

Shiro nodded, still looking rather glum.

“By the way, um...” Yuuri said, “I'm not sure how to say this but...can I keep calling you Shiro?”

Shiro looked up. “Of course. It's not like I remember being Viktor, after all.”

“Alright,” he said, trying not to show his relief too visibly. “Er, what should we go over next?”

“Family?” Shiro suggested, “Loved ones?”

“Ah. I didn't find any living relatives for you. It looks like your parents died when you were young, and you were in the Russian skating system with your coach as your legal advocate. Apparently they have full-time training programs for kid athletes over there.”

“Is that coach the same one taking care of my dog now?”

“Uh huh. His name is Yakov Feltsman.”

Shiro smiled. “He sounds like a kind man. I should get in touch with him and say thanks.”

They continued like that for a while, Shiro asking questions and Yuuri answering what he could, slowly piecing together the image of Viktor Nikiforov. Viktor was twenty-seven, his birthday was December 25th, he had trained in ballet and choreography under Lilia Baranovskaya, and had forgone university to focus on his skating career. Viktor seemed to be on good terms with most other figure skaters. In interviews he had always been charming and professional, and his social media accounts had been the same.

“It's weird,” Shiro mused, scrolling through his Wikipedia page, “It feels like I'm reading about someone else. Someone who has his life together much better than I do.”

Yuuri said, “I don't know. To me it looked like you were faking a lot of it.”

“What makes you say that? I thought it looked happy.”

“When you smile—really smile—your mouth makes this little heart shape, your eyes either squint or get really wide, and your whole body seems to lift up a little. Your fake smile is flatter and never reaches your eyes or moves the rest of you. You never laughed in your media appearances, either, just a low chuckle at most,” Yuuri explained.

“Wow, I didn't realize you were observing me so closely!” Shiro grinned, “Wait! I'm smiling, is my mouth doing the thing now?”

“Yes, you dork,” Yuuri snorted, “It's doing the thing.”

Shiro leaned in, close to Yuuri's face. “I bet my mouth can do a lot of things. Want to find out?”

“Oh my god, you _do_ say things like that on purpose.”

“Are you complaining?”

A few minutes later, when they were alone, Yuuri was definitely not complaining.

#### November 3rd, Hasetsu

Yuuko was the first person they told about Shiro's identity. Yuuri felt that it was only right, after all, because she had helped bring Shiro to the Katsukis the first time that Yuuri met him. So he and Yuuri dropped by the ice rink the day after their date (first of _many_ dates, Shiro was sure), and told her.

Her scream was ear-splitting.

“Oh my god!” she groaned, leaning on the counter with her head in her hands, “I can't believe I missed this. We have magazines for all kinds of sports, but Takeshi sets up the displays and I never look at them. There was an Olympian medalist on my ice and I never even realized. Oh my god. How is this even real?!”

Shiro chuckled. “If it makes you feel any better, I missed it too. And I wasn't even on the ice until you'd known me for a while, so of course you wouldn't have expected that.”

“Still, I feel like kicking myself,” she said. “Hey, wait a second...”

She turned around, her line of sight following the sound of giggling. She ran over to a bench and pulled her three daughters out from hiding under it.

“You knew!” she shrieked, “You spotted it the very first time, and you didn't tell us!”

The girls grinned unrepentantly.

“At first we thought you were in hiding,” said Lutz, “then we just thought it was funny to play along.”

“You ought to apologize to Shiro—I mean, to Mr. Nikiforov right now!”

Shiro held up his hands and smiled. “It's alright. I think it may have been for the best, really.”

Both Yuuko and Yuuri looked at him strangely.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Because a figure skater who can't skate isn't much use to anyone, is he? You saw how I was at first. I couldn't even enter the building without having an episode.”

Shiro was still smiling, but it felt strained now, and he knew it wouldn't fool Yuuri or Yuuko for a second.

“Shiro,” Yuuri said, taking his hand, “You'd still be important to me even if you never skated at all.”

“And besides,” Yuuko insisted, “You've gotten a lot better! I've seen you skating with Yuuri now, you're fantastic.”

“It helps if I'm teaching it to someone,” Shiro said, looking down at his and Yuuri's hands. “I'm not sure why.”

“Can we get an autograph now?” Loop piped up.

Yuuko raised an eyebrow meaningfully while making eye contact with Shiro, ready to take her lead from him. He agreed, and the girls immediately produced notepads and pencils out of nowhere. Shiro wrote his name once, paused, and then facepalmed.

“What's the matter?” Yuuri asked.

“I thought they wanted me to write 'Shiro Katsuki' at first.” He started scratching the Kanji characters out.

Yuuko giggled, “That's adorable.”

“Wait!” Lutz cried, “Can we get both names?”

“Yeah, that will be worth way more!” Axel chirped.

Shiro laughed and shook his head, but agreed. He wrote 'Shiro Katsuki' out again, then looked thoughtful for a few moments.

“Trying to figure out if I should use Hiragana, Roman letters or Cyrillic for my Russian name,” he explained.

“All of them!” Lutz said.

“Alright!”

It ended up being a very complicated autograph, with four different writing systems from three different languages and two different names.

“Thank you for being nice to my girls, Mr. Nikiforov,” Yuuko smiled, once the triplets had finally been satisfied and ran off.

“Either Shiro or Viktor is fine,” Shiro shrugged. “And it was a pleasure.”

They went to Minako's bar and told her next, and she reacted much more calmly. As a renowned dancer herself, she was not dazzled by celebrity. She shook hands with Shiro in the Western style of greeting.

“Heh, I figured it must have been something like that,” she snorted. “Either a professional danseur or something similar. Do you know Lilia Baranovskaya?”

“Well...” he chuckled, “Technically yes, she taught me ballet, but I don't remember any of it.”

Minako gasped, “How could you forget _the_ Lilia?”

Okay, so it turned out Minako could be dazzled by celebrity after all. She proceeded to make them watch videos of her Russian counterpart, until Yuuri gently reminded her that Viktor Nikiforov was a figure skater, not a danseur, and that there were plenty of videos of him online, too.

“Right then!” she said, making a fist, “Next class, I will tell you how much of Lilia's influence I see in your skating! Prepare yourself!”

That night, they told Yuuri's family, which was the easiest part of all. Yuuri's parents weren't really into skating, and didn't seem to even see Viktor Nikiforov as a celebrity at all, just as another side of Shiro. But they still congratulated him and hugged him warmly.

“Be warned,” Mari told them later, “I think you'll just be 'Shiro' forever in this house.”

“I'm fine with that,” Shiro said lightly. “And I'm grateful for all the kindness the Katsukis have shown me. It's nice to know I'll be able to pay you back for any costs I incurred.”

Mari elbowed him. “Shut up. You're paying back nothing. But you better call Mom and Dad often so they don't worry about you.”

He smiled, and felt a warm and soft feeling blossoming in his chest. He had been feeling that a lot lately, especially around the Katsukis, but he couldn't put a name to it yet.

#### November 6th, Hasetsu

It was hard for Shiro to think of himself as Viktor. He read a few articles about his life and tried to watch an interview, but seeing himself say and do unfamiliar things was not pleasant; it brought back the feeling of being a puppet, of watching himself from the outside. By now he was able to recognize the dissociation coming, however, and he closed the webpages before it could get too bad. It hadn't helped jog his memories, anyway.

Watching his old skating videos worked a little better. He didn't remember the routines by sight or music, but when he tried acting them out, the movements came back easily. His body remembered even if his conscious awareness didn't. And, now that he had proper skates, landing triple and quad jumps was damn satisfying. He hadn't realized just how _fun_ skating was.

It was high time that Viktor finally called Mr. Feltsman and let the poor man know he was okay. He made a deliberate effort to call himself “Viktor” in his head, because he thought it would help him get into character for the conversation. So, sitting on his bed with phone in hand, he looked up Mr. Feltsman's contact information. He couldn't get a phone number or email address for the man himself, but he did find the number of the ice rink where the coach and his skaters trained. Viktor took a deep breath, and dialed.

After a few rings, a young man's voice on the other end of the line grumbled in Russian, “What is it now?”

“Hello,” Viktor said, and _holy crap he was fluent in Russian_. “May I speak to Mr. Feltsman, please?”

“Who's calling?” grunted the voice.

“Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Go to hell!”

Viktor blinked. Well, that was unexpected.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “Is this Mr. Feltsman's ice rink in St. Petersburg?”

“Fuck you, you stupid prank caller,” snarled the man, and under the anger there was a slight tremble in his voice. “Treating Viktor's disappearance like some kind of joke. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Um. Wow.

Viktor kept his voice even and friendly. “This is not a joke, and I'm not a prank caller. I really am Viktor Nikiforov. I apologize for upsetting you.”

“You're not shit,” spat the voice, “Viktor's had Yakov's number memorized for ages. He'd just call him directly. Now fuck off,” he said, and hung up.

Viktor was surprised, and a little annoyed. Sure, he'd love to call Mr. Feltsman directly, but there was this thing called amnesia in the way! After a few minutes, he tried calling the ice rink again, but the line hung up automatically. The angry guy on the other end had blocked him.

Shiro frowned, and joined Yuuri and Mari in the living room, where they were playing a video game. He sighed in frustration and let himself fall backward onto the couch.

“What's up?” asked Mari, pausing the game.

“Tried to call my old coach, let him know I'm alright,” he muttered. “I got mistaken for a prank caller and they blocked my number.”

“Ouch,” she said with a sympathetic grimace.

“Could you maybe email him instead?” Yuuri suggested.

Shiro shook his head. “There's no public email address I can find for him. And I don't remember his private address, or my email address, so I can't do that. I can't use any of my social media accounts because I don't remember the passwords, and I can't reset the passwords without my email address. How am I supposed to contact him now?”

“Uh, Shiro?” Mari said, “You know you're famous, right? And there's an international manhunt for you?”

“...Yes?”

“Meaning, it's amazing that you found an ice rink where nobody recognized you on sight.”

“ _That_ famous?”

Shiro still had trouble believing that, but Yuuri's eyes widened, and he seemed to know what Mari was implying.

“All you need to prove your identity is your face,” she continued, “You could just walk up to a journalist and bam, you're the six o'clock news.”

Shiro had considered something like that. But it brought up images of those interviews and articles he'd seen about himself—and the creeping sense of dissociation with it. Along with the fact that everyone in the media and the audience would be expecting him to be “Viktor Nikiforov,” a person he still didn't remember and didn't know how to be.

Yuuri spoke up, “That would get a whole crowd after him though...Interviewers, paparazzi, fans. And they'd all come here. It would be a headache.”

“Could be good for business, though,” Mari pointed out.

“Shiro, what do you want to do?”

Shiro tapped his chin, thinking for a minute. Then, he smiled mischievously: “I have an idea.”


	6. The Voice on the Phone

#### November 9th, France

Yakov and his skaters had arrived for the Trophée de France, where Georgi would compete in hopes of qualifying for the Grand Prix Final. Mila had been assigned to a different event later in the season, but had come for moral support. Yuri had come too, grumbling all the way, even though he was out of the competition. The boy had been too complacent, too used to dominating the field in Juniors, and he'd had a rude awakening when he faced off against the much tougher Seniors this year.

As they practiced in the rink the morning before the competition, Viktor's absence hung over them. Georgi had lost his friendly rival. Mila had lost her main partner for teasing people and making jokes. Yuri lost his biggest inspiration and role model for figure skating. Yakov had lost the closest thing he had to a son. The skaters from other countries noticed the Russians' moods, and walked on eggshells around them. Yakov scowled at them; he did not want their pity.

Yuri had been messing with his cell phone while Mila and Georgi goofed off on the ice, when he suddenly screeched, “What?!”

“God's sake, Yura,” Yakov glared, “Be quiet and pay attention!”

“Old man! There's a video of Viktor! You've gotta see this!” he yelled.

He shoved his cell phone in Yakov's face. Georgi and Mila skated over to watch immediately. The footage was slightly grainy, obviously shot by an amateur with a phone, but Yakov would know that face anywhere.

Viktor looked...surprisingly healthy, actually. His hair was a bit messy and his skin was slightly tanned, and he was wearing a t-shirt instead of his usual designer outfits. But his eyes were wide and bright, and his mouth kept twitching as if he was trying not to break into a laughing fit. The camera only showed his face and shoulders against a wooden wall outdoors, and the shadow of the person recording the video could be seen in the lower left corner.

“Okay, this time for real, you big dork,” said a voice in accented English; that was probably the cameraman.

“Alright, alright!” Viktor agreed, his voice high and light. He tried (and mostly failed) to compose himself into something resembling professionalism.

“Hi, I'm Viktor Nikiforov!” he grinned, as if he wasn't an international celebrity, “I want anyone who's worried about me to know that I'm okay. I'm just taking some time off to figure a few things out. Sorry for not checking in earlier!”

He paused, and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Was that it?”

“Maybe something for the other figure skaters?”

Viktor startled, and his whole body seemed to lift up slightly. Then his beaming smile returned and he leaned forward.

“Oh, yeah! I can't wait to see the routines this season, I bet you're all gonna be amazing! I'll be watching from home and cheering for you!” Then his smile faded, and he mused, “Wait, should I be cheering for Russia now? This is weird.”

The cameraman shrugged, rocking the camera a little. “I'm just cheering for whoever has the silliest costumes,” he said.

“There is that!” Viktor said with a chuckle, his hand over his mouth and his shoulders hunched. “Okay, I think that's all.”

“Wait, don't forget the date. So they know this is current.”

“November 8th, 2016,” he recited.

“Now we've got everything,” said the cameraman.

Viktor waved. “Bye!”

The video ended there, leaving the Russian team in various states of stunned, relieved and infuriated. No one spoke for a beat, and then everyone spoke at once.

“What does he mean, 'Should I cheer for Russia,' that's—”

“He looks good—”

“What the hell has he been doing all this time?!—”

“Where is he even—”

“That selfish, thoughtless boy!” Yakov roared, drowning out everyone else. “Eleven years! I give him eleven years of my life, and this is how he thanks me? He runs off to god knows where, without even a note? Throwing away his career and everyone who worries about him? His dog! He even left his damn dog!”

“Say,” Georgi muttered, “That is strange. You'd think he'd arrange for boarding or at least ask one of us to look after Makkachin. And why didn't he contact anyone before now?”

Mila elbowed him. “He left his cell phone, remember?”

As they argued, Yakov played the video again. He could admit privately that, as furious as he was, it was good to hear from Viktor. Yakov couldn't remember the last time the younger man had laughed like that.

“But all he'd need is an internet connection to email us, and there are internet cafes everywhere.” Georgi wrinkled his brow. “What if he really was kidnapped? What he still is, and that cameraman was one of his captors?”

“No way,” Yuri barked, “He was acting too stupidly happy to be a hostage.”

“Unless they gave him happy drugs,” Mila mused. “He was weirdly cheerful...”

“Or he fell in love with his captor!” Georgi gasped.

Yuri grumbled, “You are both morons.”

“Oh?” Mila quirked an eyebrow, “And what do you think happened, hmm?”

“Beats me,” he admitted.

Yakov was not sure what to make of the video, either, although he had noticed Viktor using the “Who, me? No, I'd never cause any trouble!” false-innocence voice he used whenever he had done something irresponsible and was trying to hide it. That was suspicious, but there was something else even more strange going on. Something grossly out of character for Viktor.

In the video, Viktor had looked more excited to watch the Grand Prix than he had been to compete in years. Yakov didn't understand why. Viktor was intensely competitive and loved being in the spotlight. He lived to surprise people, to overcome his competitors, and when no one else could rival him, to surpass himself. Many times, Yakov had literally dragged Viktor off the ice because the boy would work himself into exhaustion if left to his own devices.

But in that video...something had changed. Yakov wasn't sure what it was, but he hoped Viktor would come to his senses and just call him already.

#### November 9th, Hasetsu

Shiro hadn't been watching the internet's reaction to the video. Reading about himself as Viktor still made him dissociate a little, so he had decided to just let it go and hopefully it would find its intended audience. Besides, right now he was helping Toshiya set up for the figure skating watch party. He had promised to watch, after all, and tonight was the Trophée de France. Viktor was arranging furniture so that the Katsukis, Nishigoris and Minako, plus whichever guests from the inn wanted to join, would all have places to sit.

“You're allowed to root for Russia, but only if you admit Japanese food is better,” Toshiya joked, switching between screens and channels on the television.

“I wouldn't know,” Shiro said, “I couldn't remember any Russian recipes when Hiroko asked me. Although I know her cooking is excellent.”

“Fine, I suppose that will have to do,” Toshiya said with a mock huff. “You wouldn't happen to know where the figure skating program is, would you?”

“Sorry, I can't navigate the menus.”

He could speak Japanese fairly well now, having been surrounded by it for five months, and had picked up the syllable-based and letter-based forms of writing it. He could write the names of people he knew and the most common words he needed. But most of the Kanji characters were still unknown to him.

“Don't worry about it,” Toshiya said, “I'm sure I'll figure out—oh, look, it's you!”

He'd found a news station, which was showing Shiro's video from yesterday, subtitled in Japanese. When it stopped, a reporter began speaking.

“Reactions to the video have been mixed. The unknown location and context for the video, its sudden release on the eve of the Trophée de France figure skating competition, and Mr. Nikiforov's strange remarks have fueled speculation as to the video's true purpose. A minority of commentators have even argued that it might not be Mr. Nikiforov at all, citing that it has not come from any of his verified social media accounts.”

“Wow, I'm news!”

“Told you so,” Mari said, wandering in with Yuuri.

The news was showing screenshots of people's reactions to the video now, mostly tweets and blog posts that Shiro couldn't read. The newscaster continued reporting in a voiceover.

“Mr. Nikiforov's comment on not knowing whether to support Russia has sparked debate over whether there was conflict between him and his coach, the other Russian competitors, or the Russian ISU, and whether this conflict relates to Mr. Nikiforov's sudden disappearance last June. Other commentators have suggested that this remark is a protest of Russian political issues.”

“I wasn't protesting anything, I just wasn't sure if I should cheer for Japan more...” he said.

“Although the message of the video superficially appears to be a reassurance, the absence of information about Mr. Nikiforov's location, activities or future plans has caused some people to argue that Mr. Nikiforov was not creating the video of his own free will, but that he has been taken captive by criminals or by a foreign government. The unseen speaker is probably a Japanese man, based on linguistic analysis. This has led some experts to argue that Mr. Nikiforov is being used as a pawn in international conflict over oil drilling rights in the Sea of Japan, or that the Yakuza are holding him hostage in order to get concessions from Russian business or criminal parties.”

“Oh god, why are they talking about me?” Yuuri mumbled.

Shiro wrapped his arms around him and grinned. “Hey Yuuri, are you Yakuza?”

“I never should have spoken in that video.”

“Because you can hold me hostage anytime.”

“Shiro!” Yuuri groaned, trying not to smile.

Mari rolled her eyes. “Get a room, or your new nickname is Hostage.”

The news segment ended, and they reluctantly returned to work. Toshiya did manage to find the right program eventually, and Minako and the Nishigoris arrived as night was falling. Shiro was setting the food out on the banquet table when Minako sidled up to him.

“So,” she smirked, “Oil drilling rights, huh?”

“Either that, or I'm a Yakuza hostage and nobody told me,” he joked. “Also, apparently I'm not really me.”

“Did you see how one of the Russian skaters has been having a meltdown in the comments section? He called you an idiot and then got dogpiled for it, and now he's yelling at everyone else,” she snorted. “And he's yelling at you because you aren't responding to his private messages. He sounds like a jerk, but I think he's really just worried and trying to act tough.”

Shiro pulled up the video on his phone, and sure enough, there was Yuri Plisetsky raging against Viktor, the other commentators, and the world in general. The private inbox page for Shiro's account was filled with messages from strangers—mostly “Hurray, you're okay!” and “I love you Viktor!”—but after scrolling for a while he found Yuri's messages:

> icetigerplisetsky: goddammit viktor where have you been
> 
> icetigerplisetsky: yakov is having an aneurysm brought on by your sheer STUPIDITY
> 
> icetigerplisetsky: are you trying to sabotage mila and georgi because come ON, it's the fucking trophee de france and nobody's talking about them, everyone's talking about YOU. you fucking attention whore.
> 
> icetigerplisetsky: everybody here is off their game now and the competition's gonna suck
> 
> icetigerplisetsky: fucking RESPOND already, don't pull your disappearing act on me again

Shiro—Viktor, he reminded himself—typed in a reply.

> vnwhite: Yuri Plisetsky?

The reply was immediate:

> icetigerplisetsky: FINALLY
> 
> icetigerplisetsky: CALL ME
> 
> vnwhite: What number?

“Shiro!” Minako called, patting the seat between her and Yuuri, “The competition's about to start!”

The others were looking at him expectantly. The watch party had been his idea, after all. They had put in a lot of work to arrange this for him. But on the other hand, there was Yuri's number on his phone screen, and somewhere in France was a frightened Russian.

“Go ahead, I'll join you soon. I've got to make a call.”

#### November 9th, France

Yuri was leaning back in the stands with Mila, fuming at himself, Viktor, and the world at large. Georgi and Yakov were in the waiting area, preparing for Georgi to go first on the ice. There were only a few minutes left before he went out. Yuri tuned out the announcer and scrolled through the video comments on his phone. Then it buzzed and a private message from the video's creator popped up.

> vnwhite: Yuri Plisetsky?

Yuri felt his stomach do a quad flip.

> icetigerplisetsky: FINALLY
> 
> icetigerplisetsky: CALL ME
> 
> vnwhite: What number?

Yuri barely took the time to type in and send his phone number, before running out of the stadium and into a back corridor. He didn't stop until he found a chair in a small alcove where he didn't expect anyone to overhear him. He hadn't been running long, but he could feel his heart pounding a mile a minute. His phone rang and displayed an unfamiliar number, and he answered it immediately.

“Viktor?” he said, hating how weak his voice sounded.

“Yuri?” came Viktor's voice, slightly staticky and halting.

“Jesus Christ, Viktor,” he breathed, “Where the hell are you?”

“I'm in Japan. I'm alright. Please don't worry.”

“I'm not worried, you idiot!” Yuri snapped. “What the hell are you doing over there?”

Viktor took a few seconds to reply.

“Like I said,” he finally answered, “I need to figure some things out.”

“As if you couldn't figure things out in St. Petersburg?! Like you couldn't even tell us where you were going? We've had nothing from you for months! We thought you were kidnapped or dead!”

He heard a sigh. “I'm sorry, Yuri.”

“You abandoned your own goddamn dog! You loved that dog! What the hell, man?”

“I'm really, really sorry.”

Viktor's voice was wavering. He sounded like he was about to cry. Yuri had never heard of him crying before.

Mila came around the corner, breathing hard. She must have come running after Yuri. She opened her mouth to say something, but shut it when Yuri glared and pointed at his phone. She leaned over next to him, and he tilted the phone toward her so she could hear.

“Viktor. What's really going on?”

Viktor was silent.

“Are you in trouble?” Yuri demanded, feeling himself tensing up again, “Were you really kidnapped after all or something? Is someone threatening you?”

“No, no, nothing like that!”

“Viktor, we're worried about you!” Mila interjected.

There was another silence from the other end, then Viktor said, “Hi, who's this?”

“Mila,” she answered.

Strange, Yuri thought, Viktor should have recognized her voice. On the other end of the line, there was the distant sound of someone talking, and Viktor said something in Japanese.

“What was that?” Yuri asked suspiciously.

“Sorry, just talking to a friend,” Viktor replied.

“Seriously, old man, _what's going on_?”

“It's fine, Yuri. I just need some time. I promise that I'm okay.”

Mila crooned, “You're being awfully vague, Vitya...If you don't tell us then my finger might slip and post those pictures you don't want online...”

“...'Vitya'?”

Yuri felt his blood run cold. He and Mila looked at each other in shock. Viktor would have recognized his own nickname. Just who the hell were they talking to?

“Okay, Viktor,” Mila said stiffly, taking the phone. For once, Yuri didn't argue. “Yakov's trying to get our attention now. We're going to call you back later, okay? Goodbye.”

“Bye,” said the voice.

The line went dead. Mila handed him his phone back, and they stared at each other with wide eyes.

“That was definitely him in the video,” Yuri said.

“Had to be,” she agreed. “But the person on the phone acted like he didn't know me. Either it wasn't Viktor, or Viktor was trying to tell us something he couldn't say out loud. Like that he might not be speaking freely. Either way, he's in trouble.”

#### November 10th, France

Yuri and Mila had told Yakov everything that had happened, their voices pitched with worry. Yakov never liked it when Yuri wasted his time fighting people on the internet, but he had to admit that it had come in handy this time. After the competition was over, he dialed the number that had called Yuri, and turned on the speakerphone. The three skaters sat around him, listening intently.

Viktor, or at least the person claiming to be Viktor, answered quickly with a Japanese greeting.

“Vitya, it's Yakov,” Yakov said, playing along for now, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I'm fine. I'm safe. I promise.”

“You said you were in Japan? Where?”

“Hasetsu, a village on the coast.”

“Where in Hasetsu?”

“I'm staying with the Katsuki family. They run an inn called Yu-Topia and they're really nice.”

That...was easier than expected. He had assumed the other person would just keep being evasive. Mila and Georgi immediately pulled out their phones, probably looking up the inn. Yuri just glared at the phone.

“Are you able to come home?”

“Well...”

“Words, Vitya. Use them.”

He heard the other person taking a deep breath on the other end.

“I don't think I'm ready for that yet.”

“What is the problem, boy?”

Ah, there was that frustrating silence Mila and Yuri had mentioned. The stubborn refusal to actually explain what was going on. Georgi held up his phone, and mouthed the words “Found it.” The screen had a map leading to Yu-Topia.

The voice finally said, “I'm sorry, Mr. Feltsman. I just need time to sort myself out.”

Yakov twitched. Viktor never called him Mr. Feltsman.

“How is Makkachin?” asked the voice.

“He is right where he's supposed to be, unlike you,” Yakov grumbled.

“Is he happy?”

“I'm not your damn dogsitter, Vitya.”

The man on the other end laughed softly, and it made Yakov's heart ache. It sounded so much like Viktor.

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Feltsman,” he said. “You're a good man, and you've done more than I can ever repay you for.”

“That better not be your way of saying goodbye,” Yakov scolded, although he did feel rather touched by the words.

“Of course not. Let's keep in touch, okay?”

“Very well,” he assented. Mila was waving at him, so he added, “I will speak to you later. This is not over.”

“I look forward to it,” said the other person, “Bye!” and he hung up.

Mila smirked, and said, “Hey coach, think we can spare a couple days of practice?”

She held up her phone, which displayed a list of the next available flights from St. Petersburg to Japan.


	7. The Russian Invasion

#### November 15th, Saga Airport, Near Hasetsu

“For the last time, Georgi, there will be no 'daring rescue missions!' Mila, you will not attempt to 'ballet-banzai' anyone, regardless of whether they are a ninja or not! If there is any sign of danger or coercion, we will call the police! Is that understood?”

“Yes, coach,” the skaters slumped under the weight of Yakov's glare.

The four of them had piled into a taxi, with Yakov in the front seat and his three proteges in the back, Yuri in the middle because he was smallest. Mila and Georgi had spent the whole trip trying to devise increasingly implausible plans for how to rescue Viktor from ninjas, samurai, the Yakuza, and whatever Japan's equivalent of the KGB was, while Yuri had hunched down in his seat and glared at his phone, stubbornly refusing to join their ridiculous ideas.

Rationally, Yakov knew that Viktor probably had not been kidnapped or in any real danger, but had probably just gotten himself into some problem that he was too embarrassed to talk about. Viktor could be impulsive and reckless, after all, and Yakov would have simply contacted the police if he believed the situation warranted it. But the conversations with Viktor over the phone had been just strange enough to get Yakov concerned. So he had resolved to fly out to Japan and talk to Viktor in person while his skaters continued to practice in St. Petersburg.

The three melodramatic Russians in the back seat showed just how well _that_ plan had worked out. Mila had demanded that she come along because it was her idea in the first place. Yuri came because he insisted that Viktor still owed him a short program routine, although under his bluster Yakov could see how worried the fifteen year old really was. Georgi came because he was twenty-seven and, frankly, Yakov couldn't stop him.

“Do not complain if you blow the rest of the season because of this misadventure,” Yakov reminded them for the hundredth time.

Flying out to some random town in Japan, right in the middle of the Grand Prix season when every day of practice was critical, was an incredibly foolish idea. None of them had any idea whether it would take hours, days or even weeks to find and retrieve Viktor. Georgi, especially, was risking what might be his only chance to ever win gold, since he was nearing the end of his career and this was his first season without Viktor  present to overshadow him. Mila and Yuri had less to lose, but they were still only teenagers in a country they had never visited before, where they knew nobody and couldn't speak the language. If either of them got separated from the group, they would be incredibly vulnerable.

But the three of them looked back at Yakov with the same determined expressions they had given him every time he'd tried to persuade them to stay home.

“We _will_ find Viktor,” Mila insisted.

“And kick his stupid face in,” Yuri barked.

“The medals don't matter. His life does,” Georgi agreed.

Yakov was exasperated with them. But he was also deeply proud.

So now they were en route to the inn that Viktor had indicated, fired up despite the excruciatingly long flight. Yakov didn't know what they'd find, but they would surely find something, and hopefully that something would  have silver hair and be perfectly safe and unharmed.

A t last, they came to a stop at “Yu-Topia,” which looked...like a respectable Japanese inn, Yakov supposed, although he didn't have much knowledge of Japan to compare it to. After they paid for the taxi and got their luggage, Yakov gave them their orders.

“I am going to go inside and request to speak with Viktor. I do not think there is any danger, but if any conflict should occur I do not want you three to be involved. None of you will reveal where we are online—is that clear, Yuri? The three of you will stay out here within sight of the gate. Do not wander off. Mila and Yuri, stay with Georgi. I will come back out here within half an hour and inform you of what I have found. Understood?”

The other three agreed, and Yakov trudged inside. He left his suitcase with the skaters.

He encountered a large common room where various people were sitting around low tables and talking in Japanese, and another room nearby had Western-style furniture, more people and a television set. It smelled like something good was cooking. The inn was full of warm tones and natural textures, and looked very traditional and Japanese. It was homey, and certainly felt like a family business. Yakov knew enough to remove his shoes at the door.

A  slender, middle-aged man with a kind smile noticed Yakov quickly, and gestured  to a young woman. She approached Yakov and bowed respectfully.

“Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to Yu-Topia,” she said in lightly accented English, “I am Mari Katsuki. Would you like to book a room, check in, or perhaps visit the hot springs?”

“None of those,” he said, “Is there a Viktor Nikiforov here?”

Her  demeanor became somewhat cooler towards him, although outwardly still polite.

“I am sorry, sir. We do not give out the names of our guests here.”

“I am Yakov Feltsman, Viktor's coach. I wish to speak with my student.”

Ms. Katsuki's face did not change. Yakov reflected that she would have made an excellent poker player.

She said, “Would you be so kind as to show me identification, sir?”

He flipped open his passport book, returning her neutral expression. She gently took the book with both hands, and observed his name and photograph before handing it back to him.

“Look me up,” he spoke, carefully keeping his voice non-threatening. “There are many pictures of me with Viktor.”

She watched him for another moment, and then said, “If you would kindly wait here for a few minutes, sir. Please make yourself at home.”

She  walked back toward the older man, exchanged a few words with him, and left the room. Yakov  was sure now that Viktor was here, or very close by; Ms. Katsuki had clearly anticipated that someone might come looking for him.  Yakov appreciated her professionalism in not revealing it to any random person who asked. Whether Viktor was  well , though, was another question entirely.

“ _Aaaaiiiiieee_!”

A chorus of screeching women pierced Yakov's eardrums, followed by  several voices yelling in Russian.

...Why had he thought leaving those three alone was a good idea?

####  November 15th, Yu-Topia, Hasetsu

Yuuri's Tuesday had started just like any other Tuesday: Wake up when Shiro burst into his room and dragged him out of bed  (which was a lot more pleasant now that it included kissing) , dress in his workout clothes, go for their morning run together , shower and eat breakfast with Yuuri's family, then split up to help run the family business. It was a nice routine, spending time with his loved ones and breathing in the crisp air of the dawn hours. Although anxiety was never far from Yuuri's mind, today he had felt as secure and loved as he ever did. 

He was cleaning up the men's side of the onsen baths during a break when it was closed to customers.  There were still women on the other side, so he didn't go in there. Most people were respectful of the  spring , and it was rarely outright dirty, but occasionally people would forget their glasses, towels or other clutter. He also took care to mop up puddles and other slippery surfaces to help prevent people from falling, and he checked the water to make sure it was still clean and of a good temperature.

He was on his knees, peering into the water, when a woman's voice shouted “Banzai!” from somewhere, and a screaming teenager flew over the privacy fence and landed in the water. Yuuri was so startled that he nearly fell in himself, but he quickly came to his senses and pulled the flailing, angry boy out of the water.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” he asked, checking the blond boy for injuries.

The boy jerked up at him, and barked in English, “Where is Viktor Nikiforov?”

Yuuri didn't have time to respond, because at that moment a dark-haired man came flying over the fence as well, shouting something in a language Yuuri didn't recognize, and also fell into the water. He landed near the edge of the pool, so Yuuri didn't have to rescue him from drowning, but it also caused the man to let out a loud “Oof! Ow!” as he hit the shallow end.

“What? Oh god, what?” Yuuri sputtered.

The man stood up and said something in a foreign language to the boy, who responded vehemently and then glared at Yuuri again.

“Where is Viktor Nikiforov?” he repeated.

“Who are you people?” Yuuri gulped, backing away slowly and trying not to panic.

“I'm the Ice Tiger of—”

“Hoo-ah!”shouted a woman's voice triumphantly above them.

There was a red-haired woman perched on the fence above them, pumping her fist in the air. She said something else in the language Yuuri couldn't understand, and looked down and around at the bathing areas below her. Her eyes lit up as if she had spotted something, and she clambered across the top of the fence toward...oh god, was that the women's bathing area? The teenager yelled something at her, and she ignored it.

“W-what's going on?” Yuuri stammered, looking back and forth between the foreigners.

The woman disappeared over the side of the fence. There was a loud splash followed by a lot of women screaming.

While Yuuri had been distracted by the woman, the man came around and grabbed him from behind.

“This is a rescue mission,” he declared grandly in English, “Do not be alarmed. We do not wish to harm you. We ask only that you cooperate and allow us to retrieve our friend.”

“Who _are_ you?” Yuuri shrieked.

“We,” said the boy, “are _figure skaters_. And we protect our own.”

The door to the inn opened, and Shiro ran out.

“Yuuri, are you okay?” he asked, eyes darting between the people in front of him.

The blond boy yelled, “Viktor!” rushed at Shiro, and tried to punch him in the face. Shiro caught the fist mid-strike,  held the boy's arms in place, and ignored the  wriggling teenager to look at Yuuri and the dark-haired man. Shiro — no,  _Viktor Nikiforov_ , Yuuri remembered with a jolt— gazed at the man steadily, seriously, and for a moment no one spoke.

Then  Viktor said in English, “You're both wet. Would you like a change of clothes?”

The two strangers blinked. The boy stopped struggling, and the man let go of Yuuri to pat at his hair self-consciously.

“Yeah,” the man said, “That'd be great, thanks.”

The tense atmosphere deflated, leaving only awkwardness and, at least for Yuuri, the hanging question of what the hell was going on.  Viktor stepped over to Yuuri and put his arm around his waist, and smiled at the strangers.

“This is Yuuri. He is my friend. Please do not attack him.”

Yuuri had never seen  _this_ particular smile from Shiro, thin-lipped and deceptively calm, but he knew he did not want  it ever directed at him.

Viktor released Yuuri and walked back to the door of the inn. “Coming?”

Inside, they saw in the next room over Mari standing  with her arms crossed next to the red-headed woman, who was cringing as a man yelled at her in the same language the other strangers had used before. Mari noticed them, and came over. She spoke to Yuuri and  Viktor in Japanese.

“We found a little red rat jumping in the water and scaring our lovely patrons. I take it you found more?”

“They were bothering Yuuri,” Viktor said in the same language.

Mari's eyes narrowed at the man and the boy Yuuri had encountered.

“Big guy back there is looking for you,” she said, gesturing with her head back towards the yelling man. “Says he's Yakov Feltsman, your coach, and his ID checks out.”

So they were Russian figure skaters, Yuuri realized. Mr. Feltsman heard his name and glanced over. His eyes widened upon seeing Viktor, and he exclaimed “Vitya!” followed by something in Russian. He hurried over to speak to Viktor, and looked very angry.

Viktor spoke first, in English: “Are these two with you, Mr. Feltsman?”

Mr. Feltsman froze, and all of the Russians stared at Viktor.

“What are you playing at?” snapped the teenager. “We came here for you, stupid!”

Viktor's face lit up in realization, then he laughed. “Ah, you must be Yuri Plisetsky! We spoke on the phone!”

The Russians kept looking at Viktor strangely.

“Did you hit your head or something, Viktor?” asked the red-haired woman. “You're acting weird.”

Viktor smiled, which Yuuri immediately saw as fake.

“And if you say 'I'm fine,' or 'Don't worry' one more time,” she added, “I will pick you up and haul you back to Russia myself.”

“I don't believe I said anything like that to you?”

“On the phone, remember?” she huffed. “You weren't answering our questions, so we had to come here!”

“Oh,” he said. His eyes widened. “Oh, you're Mila.”

Yakov  crossed him arms and said , “I should hope you can remember your own rinkmates, Vitya.”

Viktor  fake- smiled and said nothing. The dark-haired Russian man tapped Viktor's shoulder.

“Yeah, Viktor,” he asked, “What's my name?”

Viktor was silent. The smile, weak and strained as it was, slowly slipped off his face.

“Viktor?” the dark-haired man asked, face becoming concerned.

“...I don't know.”

“Did you seriously forget our names?!” Yuri yelled. “Even for you, that's goddamn stupid!”

“You asked if we were with Yakov,” the dark-haired man whispered, eyes widening, “You honestly didn't know? How could you not know that?”

Viktor sighed. He frowned, and ran his hand through his hair, and he looked drained.

“There's a lot I don't know anymore, okay?”

That shut the Russians up.

A man cleared his throat, and Yuuri saw his father standing in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” he nodded to Mr. Feltsman, “I'm terribly sorry about this, but some of our customers are asking that you four please find another place to stay.”

“I apologize for the disturbance,” Mr. Feltsman rumbled. “These three idiots will face severe consequences for the trouble they have caused your business.”

“Thank you, good sir,” said Yuuri's father, “I would be happy to refer you to other inns if you desire.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, if all of you would kindly come with me,” he said, in the gentle yet assured tone he reserved for his most troublesome customers.

The Russians meekly followed after him, though not without looking back at Viktor over their shoulders. This left Viktor, Yuuri, and Mari alone. Viktor let out a deep breath, and his whole body slouched a little in relief. Yuuri, who still felt shaken from his big scare earlier, hugged Viktor, as much for his own benefit as for Viktor's. Viktor hugged him back and leaned his head on Yuuri's.

“You'll have to talk to them eventually,” Mari said, tone sympathetic. “But it doesn't have to be right now.”

Viktor nodded. “ I know.”

####  November 15th, Inn-Credible Inn, Hasetsu

“I don't see why I got punished, too,” Yuri complained, “I didn't even want to break in to the inn!”

Yakov had been enraged. Not just his usual yelling self, but truly furious with them. He had spent a solid half hour shouting at them about how idiotically reckless they had been, how they could have broken their necks or legs, how they could have hurt someone, how they were lucky the Katsuki family and their customers weren't pressing charges...He had finished off by refusing to give them their room keys until they had each run as many laps as physically possible around their hotel, while carrying their luggage overhead. Now, having showered and put their bags away, the three of them were in Georgi's room,  sprawled out across the bed and chairs .

“Shut up, Yuri,” Georgi muttered, his patience gone after hearing Yuri complain the entire time they had been running.

“You assholes picked me up and threw me over a fence!” Yuri snapped.

“You were the lightest,” Mila quipped.

“You could have just scaled the fence yourself to see if he was there,” he argued. “You did do that. There was no reason to throw me and Georgi over the fence.”

“There might have been ninjas,” she protested.

Georgi groaned, “Don't start that again. It was bad enough hearing it from Yakov.”

Yuri and Mila were quiet for a few moments. Then Mila spoke again.

“Viktor acted like he didn't recognize us.”

“He didn't even know my name,” Georgi whined. “I thought we were better friends than that!”

“He didn't know any of our names,” Yuri pointed out, crossing his arms. “He only figured out who I was halfway through. 'We spoke on the phone earlier,' my ass.”

Mila sat up a little straighter in her armchair, propping her chin up on her hand.

“What if he's lost his memories?” she wondered. “It would explain this. And if he forgot our contact info then that would explain why he didn't contact us until Yuri sent him his phone number.”

“But in the video he said he was watching the Grand Prix, right?” Georgi asked, “So wouldn't he have recognized us from our routines?”

“Yuri and I weren't competing in France, and he called during your routine so he would have missed it,” Mila said.

“Plus you were wearing so much makeup you barely even looked human,” Yuri said.

Georgi glared and threw a pillow at him.

“Also, amnesia would explain why he keeps calling Yakov 'Mr. Feltsman' like some kind of stranger,” she added.

“But he knows who he is now, he made the video after all,” Georgi insisted, “So why not just go to the police or Russian embassy and get himself sent home?”

“Maybe he doesn't want to come home.”

Yuri hadn't meant to say it out loud, but once he had, the statement hung in the air like a cold fog. It took a second for the others to react.

“Viktor Nikiforov, not want to compete?” Georgi shook his head. “Skating is his life. He's never said he wanted to retire. Yakov has to tell him when he's practicing too _much_.”

“Maybe he's forgotten how much he loves it,” Mila mused, frowning and biting her lip.

Georgi sat up on his bed, mouth set in determination.

“In that case,” he declared, “We'll just have to remind him. Where's the nearest ice rink?”


	8. The Hammerklavier Sonata

#### November 15th, Hasetsu Ice Castle

In retrospect, Viktor supposed that he probably should have expected to encounter ice skaters at an ice rink. That didn't stop him from tensing slightly when he saw Mr. Feltsman supervising the other three as they practiced their moves on the ice.

Meeting the Russians earlier had been less painful than Viktor had expected, but far more awkward. He hadn't dissociated, thank goodness, but he had felt like he was trying to play a game with no idea of the rules, the goals, or where the pieces were. There was so much history and expectations behind every interaction between him, them, and them among each other, and he could feel the knowledge prickling at the edge of his consciousness, but it just wouldn't come.

He had improvised and tried to flow with the situation, but the Russians had spotted his errors immediately and became angry with him. He didn't blame them for that; he felt frustrated with himself, too. They had come looking for Viktor Nikiforov, but he could not be the person they wanted. The crestfallen looks on their faces as they walked out of Yu-Topia made him want to remember more than ever.

He and Yuuri went to the ice rink after their work was done for the day. At this late hour, it was a place where they could relax and have fun practicing what they were passionate about.

Well, most of the time.

Right now it was occupied by Russians yelling at each other.

“Yuuri! Shiro!” Yuuko exclaimed, running up to them, “A bunch of Russian figure skaters just came in here and demanded to use the rink for tonight! I'm sorry, I know you were planning to use it, but the coach was really insistent and he also paid a lot for it...”

“It's alright,” Viktor reassured her, “They're in the middle of their season, so I don't blame them for practicing as much as they can.”

Yuuri shrugged amiably, although Viktor could tell he was feeling disappointed. Yuuri had been making a lot of progress on the _Hammerklavier_ routine, and Viktor planned to ask him soon if he wanted to do a public performance. Granted, Yuuri had never intended to show it to other people, but Viktor felt that Yuuri deserved recognition for his skills.

Mila spotted them. Her face lit up in a big smile, and she waved at them, speaking in English. “Viktor! Viktor's friends! Come over here!”

“You know them?” Yuuko asked as they walked over to the rink wall. “They're really talented.”

“They're my coach and rinkmates, from when I was competing,” Viktor replied. He had looked them up online just to make sure.

The dark-haired skater, whom Viktor now knew was Georgi Popovich, had skated over as well. Yuri Plisetsky and Mr. Feltsman had noticed, but were too busy arguing to join them just yet.

“Wow, we didn't even have to invite you!” Mila exclaimed, leaning on her elbows over the rink wall.

Georgi muttered, “At least _something_ went right today.”

“Rough day?” Yuuko asked.

Yuuri said, “They jumped over the fence into the bathing areas at the onsen, terrorized the female patrons, nearly broke their heads open on the rocks, grabbed me and tried to attack Viktor, then my Dad kicked them out.”

Yuuri's unimpressed face was a thing of beauty. So was Yuuko's gaping expression when she turned to the Russians and just stared, and the Russians cringed and looked down.

“Well, when you put it like that it sounds stupid,” Mila mumbled.

“In my defense, Mila was the only one who scared the women, and she was not supposed to do that,” Georgi said, elbowing her in the side.

“Traitor,” Mila stuck her tongue out at him.

“Mila thinks you have amnesia,” Georgi said, switching into Russian.

Viktor tried to smile, but he suspected it looked more like a grimace.

“Why, yes, I do have amnesia,” he answered pointedly in English, “And everyone here knows about it, though only my friends know I'm Viktor Nikiforov; I'm usually called Shiro, after my hair color,” he pointed at the silvery strands, “I've been trying not to cause a media circus here.”

He looked over to Yuuri and Yuuko, who smiled at the acknowledgment. Viktor squeezed Yuuri's hand.

“How were you not discovered immediately?” Georgi took the hint and switched back to English. He looked over at Yuuko. “This is a _skating rink_.”

Yuuko smiled and rubbed her neck in embarrassment. “Well, no one here really follows figure skating, except for my girls. They figured it out quickly but didn't tell us because they are little rascals. Sorry.”

Yuri Plisetsky skated over, and Mr. Feltsman joined them a few seconds later.

“Yep, amnesia,” Mila said to them.

“For everything?” Mr. Feltsman grunted, crossing his arms.

“I can remember how to do things, like skating and ballet, but can't recall any facts before June,” he confirmed.

“Show me,” the coach huffed. “You better have been practicing, Vitya.”

“Nope!” he shrugged. “In fact, I didn't know I could skate at all until October!”

The look of horror and incredulity on Mr. Feltsman's face was perfect, and Viktor couldn't stop himself from laughing.

The Russians looked at him strangely. They did that a lot.

“I've never heard you laugh before,” Mila reflected.

Viktor wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he just shrugged again, still smiling a little.

Yuuri finally spoke up, “Please don't be mad at him, Mr. Feltsman. He's been training me to do a routine. I know it's not what you wanted but he has been working very hard.”

“Seriously?!” Yuri Plisetsky spat, “You gave him a routine and not me?” He growled at Yuuri, “Are you even a skater?”

“I teach skating classes,” Yuuri said a little defensively.

Yuri Plisetsky scowled at Viktor, “You found an amateur with my name! You replaced me with some loser! Why are you wasting your time here? There's only room for one Yuri on the ice!”

Yuuko bristled, ready to fight for Yuuri, but Viktor spoke first.

“Okay,” he agreed lightly. “You can be 'Yurio,' then.”

“What? Hey!”

“And not to worry,” he grinned, putting an arm around Yuuri, “I would never waste my time on someone who wasn't worth it.”

“Show us, then,” Mr. Feltsman interrupted.

The coach looked sternly at Yuuri now. Yuuri shook a little under his stare.

“I...I'm just a run of the mill skating teacher,” Yuuri whispered, looking at his feet. “Shi— _Viktor's_ been amazing, he's taught me a lot, but I know I could never keep up with you guys.”

“That's not true!” Yuuko argued, “Yuuri, your moves are fantastic!”

“I want to see your routine,” Georgi said.

“Me too,” Mila smirked, “It's not easy to get Viktor's interest.”

Yuuri's eyes darted around, and he drew closer to Viktor's side, clearly feeling outnumbered.

“You don't have to,” Viktor whispered in his ear, “But I'd like to see you get some credit for all your work. You're extraordinarily skilled, and you've really made the routine your own.”

“You think so?” Yuuri asked.

“I think the five-time World champion knows talent when he sees it. If I say you're good, you are _good_.”

It was the first time he'd ever referred to his past career as if it were his own, but Viktor didn't notice at the time. He was more interested in the highly attractive blush on Yuuri's cheeks right now.

Yuuri took a deep breath. “Alright.”

Viktor, Yuuko and Mila cheered, and Yuuko brought Yuuri his good skates. A minute later, trembling a little, Yuuri was the only person on the ice.

“He's gonna bomb this,” Yurio grumbled. Mila shushed him.

Viktor pressed the remote, and the final movement of the _Hammerklavier Sonata_ began to play.

#### November 15 th, the Ice Rink, Hasetsu

Yuuri tried to steel himself at first, to hold firm under the weight of the competitive skaters judging him, but [the sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5gPeDBUXyc) called for tenderness, not steel.

Although Viktor had choreographed it, Yuuri as the performer would interpret the music and routine, and he was the one who conveyed the emotions and the story. Yuuri had listened to it dozens of times now, trying to visualize just what the music made him feel to make him fall in love with it. Gradually, he had formulated a narrative.

Yuuri Katsuki was not a man of words. He stammered, he mumbled, he tripped over syllables and trailed off at random. He had greeted class presentations with shaking hands and panic attacks. But give him a song and a pair of ballet slippers, and he could show everything that he couldn't speak.

The music opened timidly, like Yuuri himself around strangers. His hesitance here was deliberate, not awkward. A melody of brief glimmers in the darkness, defined by gaps and silence as much as by its notes. A lone traveler in a foreign country.

Yuuri had not spent his entire life in Hasetsu, but he hadn't left the town for more than a few weeks at a time, and had never gone farther than Tokyo. He would have traveled farther, to drink in more of the world. But how could he? His family worked full-time, and couldn't afford it. No one he knew felt much desire to travel, anyway. And though Yuuri's anxiety was manageable in a life of routine and familiar faces, being alone in a foreign country would turn that upside down.

So Yuuri closed his eyes as he skated, and poured his regrets onto the ice. He imagined flying as far from Hasetsu as possible. Where Hasetsu was ocean, Yuuri saw scorching deserts. Snow, where Hasetsu had sun. Trees brushing the sky so high his neck ached to look at them.

The music sped up, building into the joyous jog of the explorer. The sonata's theme was joined by a second melody, like a friendly face coming to accompany the journey. The traveler was no longer alone.

Yuuri swept out of his crossovers, launched into a triple flip, and landed in a metropolis. Sure, he had seen Tokyo up close. But his books were filled with coliseums and cathedrals and spiraling minarets. A city filled with all kinds of people, dressed in more ways than he could identify, speaking languages he'd never be able to guess. The song bucked and galloped like a feral horse. It constantly changed its mood and rhythm. Yuuri had to block out everything else from his senses just to keep up.

Triple-toe loop, double toe loop. Barely a pause to catch his breath. A whole world in a microcosm rushing around him. The theme melody and its companion clung arm in arm to keep from losing each other in the crowd. Everything was happening, and it was happening right now.

Then the music started going _backwards_.

The second melody vanished. On the ice, Yuuri spun in on himself, casting aside excitement for worry. The theme stumbled and rocked, like a tourist who'd had a little too much to drink, and found himself in the dark long after the bars had closed. But where Hasetsu went dead at those hours, this city kept going, bright and deadly. The traveler hid himself in an alley. He gasped to catch his breath.

A warm note rang out. A hand extended, a flash of silver under the streetlights. Yuuri lifted his hand, eyes open again. His arm pointed straight at Viktor.

He hadn't lost his companion after all.

He ended the song with a triumphant flourish. His whole body shook with exhaustion, but he had landed every jump, nailed every spin and step sequence. He let his arms fall to his side and glanced sidelong at his audience.

Yuuko had stars in her eyes. Mila and Georgi's mouths were hanging open. Yurio was looking away, sullen. Mr. Feltsman looked thoughtful. The Nishigori triplets—where had they come from?—were jumping up and down whooping in glee. Viktor...Viktor was walking over to the rink gate?

Yuuri skated over, and was about to ask Viktor what he'd thought when the other man launched himself at Yuuri and embraced him tightly. Yuuri felt Viktor's smile tickling his neck.

“How'd I do?” Yuuri whispered, although he already had a warm feeling about the answer.

Yuuko answered instead. “You were amazing, Yuuri! I had no idea you had it in you!”

The triplets swarmed around them, demanding Yuuri's autograph. Yuuko had to corral them in another room with the promise of getting the autograph later.

“You gave him the _Hammerklavier Sonata_?” Georgi asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

Viktor finally, reluctantly pried himself off Yuuri.

“I did,” he smiled.

“How long was that program?”

“A little under six minutes.”

“Jesus.” Georgi shook his head, and Mila whistled.

“Uh, is that a lot?” Yuuri asked.

Mila replied, “A man's long program for a competition can't be much longer than four minutes and thirty seconds. You were doing triples after the five minute mark. You must have the stamina of a tank.”

“Well, the full movement is thirteen minutes, and we couldn't really find a good stopping point...” he mumbled.

“Couldn't find a stopping point,” Georgi repeated, leaning on the barrier and holding his head in his hands.

“Katsuki,” Mr. Feltsman spoke, “You said this was your first formal routine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been practicing it?”

“About a month.”

Georgi let out a whimper.

Mr. Feltsman nodded, scrutinizing Yuuri. “That was...exceptional. It's a pity you don't compete.”

Mila snorted and shook her head. “Vitya, how did you find this guy?”

Viktor grinned. “He swept me off my feet, and I fell in love instantly!”

“ _Viktor_!” Yuuri groaned, hiding his face in Viktor's side.

“Can you do any quads?” Yurio grunted, looking up for the first time.

“No,” Yuuri said, shaking his head.

“Hmph,” Yurio glared, “I can do three.”

“Ignore him,” Mila said, gently shoving Yurio. “He's just jealous because he wanted Viktor to make _him_ a program this season.”

Mr. Feltsman was still looking thoughtful. He asked, “Who trained you in ballet?”

Yuuri fidgeted. “Minako Okukawa, she's a dance teacher here—”

Mila screeched. “Oh my god! You know Minako Okukawa?! I love her work! She's amazing!”

“She lives just down the road, I think her bar is still open...” Yuuri offered, getting a little overwhelmed.

The Russians, it turned out, adored Minako's performances and considered her the equal of their own famous teacher. As soon as his skates were off, Yuuri found himself being strongarmed into their guide. Mr. Feltsman shook his head and let them go out under the promise that Yurio and Mila wouldn't be given alcohol.

“The _Hammerklavier Sonata_ ,” Georgi mumbled to himself as they left, “on his _first routine_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hammerklavier Sonata really does play its melody backward at one point. This is a common trick in canons and fugues, which take a melody and twist it in all sorts of ways.


	9. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with a very painful subject. See the end notes for content warnings.

#### November 15th, Minako's Bar, Hasetsu

Minako's bar had been open, and she was delighted to meet the three Russian skaters. She chatted with them at the counter for a while as she locked up her wares. But she wasn't interested in doing much that night.

“It's late, I'm too tired to show you any dance moves, and we can't get drunk because of the little ones,” she said, earning an indignant squawk from Yurio. “Meet me here tomorrow morning. I don't have a class that day, so we can arabesque our little hearts out then.”

“Viktor, I cannot _believe_ ,” Mila groaned, “That you've been dancing with Minako Okukawa all this time. I am so jealous. You'll have to show me what you've been up to tomorrow.”

Viktor smiled, but shook his head. “Sorry, but Yuuri and I have work tomorrow. We're still repairing part of the pool that broke when _someone_ cannon-balled in.”

“Oh wow, wonder who that could be...” Mila chuckled nervously.

“Nonsense,” Minako said, as she put away chairs under the tables, “I'll just swing by Yu-Topia and grab you two. Hiroko will let me.”

Yuuri shook his head. “But we can't operate the onsen until it's fixed, and Mom and Dad have bad backs and Mari can't do it alone...”

“A ha,” Minako said, “I never said _you_ would be the ones fixing it, hmm?”

She turned and sent a pointed smirk to the Russians, who quaked in their seats.

“No ballet until the onsen's fixed!” she crowed. “And give me a hand with these chairs, would you?”

The Russians became a lot more eager to help her clean up after that.

#### November 16th, Hasetsu

Viktor was happy to have met the Russians, who seemed nice enough even if they had tried to “rescue” him at first, but he still didn't remember them personally. They had been surprisingly accepting of his amnesia, and treated him like an old friend. But he still caught them giving him strange glances frequently, and sometimes rather sad looks. He could tell they were comparing him to the person they remembered in their heads, the other Viktor Nikiforov.

On this morning, Viktor got up early as usual, got Yuuri up early as usual, and they finally had a half hour to themselves to enjoy the dawn and each other's company. They stopped to catch their breaths near the temple, the roar of the waterfall audible from beyond the gates.

“When I'm with you,” Viktor said softly, “I always feel real.”

Yuuri's eyes widened, and he turned to Viktor.

“Thank you,” he smiled. But then his smile faded.

“What's wrong?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri looked like he was about to say “Nothing,” so Viktor reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. Yuuri placed his hand over Viktor's, and closed his eyes.

“When are you going back to Russia?”

Viktor tensed. He had been trying not to think about that.

Russia meant...a lot of things, most of which he didn't fully understand or remember. Russia meant seeing Makkachin at last, and he had been feeling guilty every day that he spent without the dog, even if he only knew him from pictures. Russia meant returning to competitive figure skating—a career that he did love, truly, now that he'd reacquainted himself with the ice. Russia meant he would be Viktor Nikiforov, the living legend, national hero, whether he was ready for it or not. Russia meant that everyone would recognize him, and the media would watch his every move. Russia meant publicity shoots, interviews, sponsorships, guest appearances.

Russia meant leaving the Katsuki family. It meant no more cooking lunch with Hiroko, drinking and watching soccer with Toshiya, or playing Mario Kart on the couch with Yuuri and Mari. It meant no more dancing with Minako or lifting the triplets up while he spun in circles on the ice. It meant there would be no more Shiro Katsuki, if such a person had ever existed at all.

Viktor moved his other hand to rest on Yuuri's cheek, gazing into his eyes. Yuuri looked back, his brown eyes full of love and concern. Russia meant no more morning runs together like this.

“Viktor?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I don't know if I want to go back at all.”

“You would have everything there,” Yuuri whispered.

“I wouldn't have you,” he responded, just as quietly. “And I wouldn't have a family.”

Yuuri's eyes shined, and he buried his face in Viktor's shoulder. Viktor held him close.

He wasn't sure how long they stood together like that, with only the sound of the waterfall for company. But they had to go back to the onsen. They walked back, silently, with their hands linked.

Their morning run must have taken longer than usual, because Minako and all four of the Russians were already present and waiting for them. The figure skaters were already dressed in the inn's “worker robes,” and had water splashed all over them, presumably from where they'd been working on the pool. Yuri, in particular, looked like a cat that had fallen into a bathtub. He scowled when Viktor started laughing at him.

“Ah!” Minako cried, “There you are, how's—”

The earth started shaking. The silverware rattled on the tables, starling the inn's patrons. Viktor felt the vibrations travel up his body.

The world was there, until suddenly it wasn't.

A colossal wave of force smashed into Viktor, and his vision blacked out.

#### Unknown Date, 19??

When Viktor opened his eyes, he was in the backseat of his parents' car. The windshield looked like an opaque spiderweb, with only the dim orange of the streetlight filtering through. Shards of glass lay everywhere, glittering like sparks. The nauseating smell of smoke, gasoline, and blood hung thick in the air.

He craned his neck to look at the front, because the seat in front of him was too tall for him to see over. The front of the car was just...not there anymore. It was like metal and glass and something else had been crushed into a heap and filled the space in front of him. It was unfamiliar and out of place and deeply wrong.

In the back of his mind, he distantly heard someone calling his name. But the forefront of his consciousness was too shocked by the sight in front of him to notice that.

“Mom?” he whispered, terrified and trembling, “Mom? Dad?”

There was no response from his parents. He raised his voice, trying not to panic.

“Mom? Dad? What happened? What's going on?”

He leaned forward, and was caught in place by his locked-up seat belt. He reached his hand around the seat in front of him, fumbling blindly for his mother, but felt only empty air.

The corner of his vision landed on the “something else” slumped in the driver's seat. It was red and crumpled and wearing his father's clothes. He knew what it had been; he wasn't sure what it was now.

Viktor's vision became staticky and the edges of it started going dark. He heard a loud ringing in his ears, and his head throbbed with his pulse and the ache of having hit something. There was still that voice in the back of his head, shouting now, and someone was holding his hand, but both seemed very far away.

A police officer, or maybe a paramedic had opened the door and was taking off Viktor's seat belt. He called over to someone behind him, “The boy's still alive, his legs have been hurt, get a stretcher—”

Viktor looked down. Huh, that was a lot of blood. The seat in front of him had been thrown backward, and he couldn't feel his legs. He wasn't frightened by this; he was too focused on where his parents were.

The paramedics took several minutes to untangle him, during which one of them kept asking him questions.

“What is your name?”

“Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Do you hurt anywhere?”

“My head.”

“Where was your family going?”

“To skating practice.”

“What year is it?”

“I...I don't know.”

“Can we call someone to come here for you?”

“Mom. And Dad.”

“Someone else?”

He didn't know anyone else to call.

He was on a stretcher now, looking up helplessly at the hazy night sky. There were no stars, only the orange streetlamps in the distance, and the rapid flashing lights of the ambulance that made his headache worse. He heard people talking, and someone was speaking in his ear, but he couldn't make sense of the words. There was still that putrid scent of smoke and blood choking the air. None of it felt real. He kept feeling like this was a dream he'd wake up from any second.

He startled when they started to take him into the ambulance.

“Mom? Where's Mom?” he demanded, voice high and shaky, “Where's Dad?”

The paramedic who had been talking to him gave him a pained and sad look.

“They're dead, Viktor.”

#### November 16th, Yu-Topia, Hasetsu

Yuuri was terrified. Not of the earthquake—this wasn't even a bad one by Japanese standards—but of Viktor's reaction to it. The man had just shut down, reacting to no one who tried to engage him, his face as pale as his hair. He was trembling, and breathing way too fast. Yuuri had slowly approached him and put an arm around his shoulders, and Viktor had clung to him like a drowning man on a plank of wood.

Viktor didn't seem to be hearing anything Yuuri said, but he at least let Yuuri guide him back to Viktor's room and lay him down on his bed. He wouldn't let go of Yuuri's hand, so Yuuri sat beside him.

The other Russians had been startled by the earthquake, but had recovered quickly. Later, Yuuri would learn that they had all wanted to follow after him, but his family had headed them off. Minako had planted herself in the hallway with feet with apart, her mouth turned up in the elegant yet fearsome smile of a ballerina who had spent forty years training every muscle in her body for strength and agility, and who knew she could kick someone's ass in a second without even smudging her makeup. Mari had taken up sentry duty next to her, with the chilly, watchful gaze she had mastered after spending her life protecting her anxious little brother from anyone who would hurt him.

Yuuri's parents had taken a different yet equally useful approach. His father had turned to Mr. Feltsman with the shared connection of worried father-figures, and asked him what they could do to help Viktor in this situation. Yuuri's mother had pulled Yurio into the kitchen and got him to help her make tea and cookies for everyone, thus defusing the most volatile person in the room and anticipating his need to do something useful.

The Katsukis' reactions allowed Yuuri to sit quietly with Viktor, rubbing circles into his palm and murmuring things like _It's okay, I'm here for you, You're going to be alright_. The situation was like a perverse mirror of their first meeting, when Viktor had been just as out of it but far less freaked out. Yuuri felt like his guts were twisted up in knots.

Slowly, Viktor's breathing evened out, and his face relaxed from “frozen horror” to merely “glum.” He glanced up at Yuuri, before his eyes slid back to staring at nothing in particular.

“Viktor, can you hear me now?”

He nodded.

“Grounding questions?”

Viktor grimaced. “Not now, Yuuri. Please. Just tell me.”

“Alright,” Yuuri gulped, still caressing Viktor's hand. “Your name is Viktor Nikiforov, nickname Shiro Katsuki. It's November 16th, 2016. You're in your room at Yu-Topia, and we walked here from the common room because there was an earthquake and you seemed to be having a really bad episode...”

“I remembered something,” Viktor said, voice flat.

Yuuri's eyes widened. “What was it?”

“My parents dying.”

“Oh. Oh god, Viktor,” Yuuri whispered. He had no idea what to say or do, having never lost a close family member himself. He felt at a loss. “Oh my god.”

“Of all the things to remember, right?”

“Can I...Is there anything I can do? To help, I mean?”

Viktor closed his eyes. “Just be here.”

Yuuri would stay with him for as long as Viktor would let him.

#### November 16th, Hasetsu Ice Castle

After the earthquake, most of the Russian skaters' work restoring the spring had been undone, so they had been forced to redo everything. No one was injured, and the Japanese people around seemed to regard the earthquake as nothing to worry about. Yakov, for want of anything better to do, had helped the Katsukis pick up silverware and other items that had fallen off tables. It was better to be active than to sit and stew over what he had just witnessed with Viktor. But he stewed anyway.

Viktor was not well, despite putting up a cheerful front. His memories were gone, and hadn't returned after five months. He had avoided skating entirely for most of that time, despite having access to a rink. He had purposefully avoided contacting the police or other agencies that could help him identify himself and come home. And now Viktor had gone into shock, with the most horrified face Yakov had ever seen on him, because of a small earthquake.

Yakov was worried. He admitted it. But if he had any small comfort, at least it was that the Katsuki family were taking care of Viktor very well. They had even given him a Japanese name as if he were one of their own. Which he might well be one day, if his relationship with the son, Yuuri, progressed much further. Yakov had no objections to that. The more people to look after Viktor and keep him grounded, the better.

After fixing the onsen and practicing for a few hours with Minako, the Russian team had taken lunch at the beach and returned to the skating rink. Yuri had been texting for most of that time, which normally would have annoyed Yakov. But this time, Yuri had been getting updates from Mari Katsuki regularly on Viktor's condition. Mari was tight-lipped on the details as usual, which was oddly reassuring, but she let them know that Viktor was doing better.

About an hour into skating practice, Viktor came in, along with his boyfriend. He was looking good enough, at least in terms of the last couple days. Yakov had noticed that Viktor was much more lively and expressive around the people of Hasetsu than he had been back in Russia. While Yuuri was dragged off by those strange little girls who haunted the rink, Viktor walked over to stand by Yakov. He did not try to get the other skaters' attention just yet.

“Well?” Yakov prompted.

“I had a flashback,” Viktor explained. “I'm mostly normal now, but it hit me very hard.”

“What was it?”

“My parents' deaths.”

Yakov nodded gravely. “I am sorry, Vitya.”

“The psychologist said something like this would happen,” Viktor said, his eyes distant and voice soft. “Since my amnesia was probably caused by some sort of trauma or severe stress, getting my memories back means that not all of those memories will be happy ones. Flashbacks, nightmares, and mood swings are all possible.”

The words made Yakov's blood run cold. He carefully kept his voice level.

“What do you believe this 'trauma' was?”

“I don't know. But it was probably related to skating. That's where most of the dissociation happened.”

“Dissociation?”

“Feeling like I wasn't real, or like the world wasn't real. Feeling like a puppet or robot, sometimes, or like I didn't exist. Wondering if I was alive or dead, when it got really bad.”

He said all of this casually, as if it wasn't profoundly disturbing. Yakov was a coach. He knew about the health of the body, not the mind. He felt utterly out of his depth, and yet Viktor was acting so calm about this.

Yakov did know enough to ask, “Did you ever consider hurting yourself?”

“Nope,” Viktor replied. “Although, I can't speak for any time before June, of course. You would know any self-destructive habits I had better than I do.”

Yakov thought about the times when he had to physically haul Viktor off the ice, because otherwise Viktor would make himself skate until he'd collapsed in exhaustion. At the time, Yakov had simply thought Viktor enjoyed skating so much that he didn't know when to stop, and that he was excessively dedicated to winning. Viktor had always said as much, after all.

The last music Viktor had chosen before he'd disappeared was Igor Stravinsky's _Rite of Spring_. It told the story of a girl who'd been chosen for a ritual by her tribe. It was a position of high honor, and all the people gathered to watch her. Her task? She danced endlessly until she died.

Yakov shuddered.

“Mr. Feltsman?”

“For god's sake, Vitya, call me Yakov. You're making me feel old.”

“Alright, Yakov,” Viktor chuckled. It was still strange to hear him laugh. “I've been thinking about the future. About competing. And I don't think—”

Yakov glowered, “Vitya, you will do no competitions until I am completely certain that you are well again, mentally and physically. You are clearly not well right now. You will call me regularly to inform me of your recovery and of any difficulties or setbacks. Is that clear?”

Viktor blinked, and then smiled. But his eyes were slightly sad.

“I am twenty-seven, Yakov.”

“So what?”

“I might not be well again before I'm too old to compete,” he said, looking away. “I might not be able to compete at all, since...”

“Since _what_ , Vitya?” Yakov pressed.

Viktor crossed his arms, and the weak smile fell off his face entirely.

“I don't know how to be the Viktor Nikiforov that the rest of the world expects me to be,” he said quietly. “Or how to be the Viktor that you and my rinkmates expect me to be. I don't know if I can be useful to you anymore.”

Yakov would never say this out loud, but he could feel his heart breaking just a little.

“Stupid boy,” he grumbled, “You've never been useful. You made me go bald from all the trouble you cause. I put up with you anyway. And now you'll probably drag that poor Japanese boy into mischief with you and come running to me when something goes wrong. And god only knows why, but I'll let you slink back into my house and steal my tea anyway.”

He gave Viktor one of his very rare gestures of affection, a pat on the back. Viktor just frowned in confusion, so Yakov decided he had to practically beat the boy over the head with his message.

“I don't care if you can compete or not, Vitya. I want you to be safe, and healthy, and happy. So you _will_ get well, and you _will_ call me about how you are feeling. Is that clear?”

That seemed to work, because Viktor's eyes widened, and he drew in a breath. Then he leaned over and hugged Yakov, much to Yakov's chagrin.

“Thank you,” Viktor whispered in a shaky voice, “Thank you so much.”

Yakov wondered how he had managed to go so wrong, that Viktor did not think he could just take Yakov's care for granted. He hoped the Katsukis would be better parents to Viktor than he had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: The "Unknown date, 19??" section contains a flashback to a traumatic accident and death of loved ones. You can skip it if that might be triggering. I wouldn't call it "graphic," but it's dark alright. Later the chapter alludes to self-destructive behavior and thoughts of death.


	10. The Rite of Spring

#### November 18th, Inn-Credible Inn, Hasetsu

“You're different, now,” Georgi said, as he packed his suitcase.

The Russian team was only able to stay for a few days before they had to leave. The next Grand Prix competition was coming up fast, and they had to fly back to St. Petersburg to prepare. Viktor had left work early for the day so he could see the Russians off.

“How am I different?” he asked.

Georgi looked up at him, appraisingly. Viktor was seated on the hotel bed and watching as Georgi folded up his clothes. The other man rearranged himself into sitting cross-legged and rested his elbows on his knees. Georgi frowned.

“You're in love.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “You don't sound very happy about that.”

“Anya and I broke up,” Georgi said, looking away. “It's been hard.”

He started zipping and unzipping his makeup bag.

“Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for you and your boyfriend. You're like a whole new person with him. But I'm also really mad and jealous. Sorry.”

“No apology needed,” Viktor said gently.

“He seems to be good for you, at least,” Georgi continued, “You're, I don't know, more...” He trailed off, and waved a hand vaguely.

“What was I like before?”

“You were perfect, all the time.” A note of bitterness crept into his voice. “Always smiling, always confident, always in control. I'd spend a whole season trying to get into the mindset of the prince, the knight in shining armor, and you'd just wink at people and they'd lose their minds over it. I was never even your rival. I was just some guy who happened to share your coach.”

Viktor winced. “I'm sorry, Georgi.”

Georgi kept fiddling with his makeup bag. He glanced up for a split second.

“I'm sorry, too,” he murmured. “When you turned up missing I realized just how petty and jealous I had been. Skating is just a sport. I'd rather have you and everyone else be okay than win all the gold medals in the world.”

“You came to find me, even though it could have cost you a season,” Viktor said in wonder. “That's...I'm deeply touched. Thank you.”

Georgi shrugged and didn't make eye contact. It must have been hard for him to say all of that out loud.

“You should talk to Yuri,” he suggested. “He's been quieter than usual on this trip, but I think he took your disappearance the hardest of all of us.”

Viktor nodded. “I'll check on him.”

He found Yurio texting and laying back on his hotel bed, long since packed up and ready to go. Yurio glanced at him, then returned to tapping on his phone.

“What do you want?” he muttered.

“We haven't spoken much,” Viktor said, uncertain. He smiled anyway. “I wanted to hear how you are doing.”

Yurio looked at him again, and glared this time. “Don't do that.”

That confused Viktor. “Don't...ask about you?”

Yurio jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don't give me that fucking fake smile, old man. I hate that look on your face.”

He blinked. The smile did, indeed, fall off his face, replaced by a more serious look as he tried to determine why Yurio was mad at him. Ah, but of course; the reason was obvious.

“I still owe you a short program, don't I?” he said, tapping his chin. “I'm sure I can—”

“Idiot!” Yurio shouted, sitting up on the bed. “I don't care about the stupid short program!”

Viktor shut up, eyes wide. They stared at each other for a few moments, and then Yurio huffed and threw himself back on the bed, turning away from Viktor and curling in on himself. Viktor wanted to reach out to the boy, to comfort him, but that was probably the last thing Yurio wanted right now.

He eventually settled on saying, “I'm sorry, Yuri.”

Yurio snorted. “Do you even know what you're sorry for?”

“...No.”

“Maybe start with the part where you fucked off to Japan, and didn't tell anyone, and made the rest of us think you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Oh. _Oh_. Yurio was mad because he had been worried.

Viktor remembered from looking Yurio up online that the boy's parents had died a few years before. He'd had to move away from his grandfather, his only living relative, in order to pursue his skating career. In day-to-day life, Yakov was the closest thing he had to a father, and Viktor was the one Yurio had sought out to help him in his senior debut. Yurio had trusted him, looked up to him. And then Viktor had suddenly vanished.

God, Viktor felt wretched.

He cast about, trying to think of something, anything he could say, to make things better.

“I'm sorry for abandoning you,” he said, “And I'm sorry for making you worry.”

Yurio twitched, still not looking at Viktor. “Are you coming back to St. Petersburg?”

“I don't know,” he admitted, hating the words as he said them. “Not today.”

Yurio did not respond.

“Yuri?” he tried again, “I'm grateful for the messages you left on that video. I couldn't have contacted you or Yakov or anyone, if you hadn't reached out to me first. You made it possible for me to see you all again, and I can't thank you enough for that.”

Yuri snorted. “You could have gone to the police. You could have gotten yourself sent home at any time.”

Viktor wasn't completely certain, but he'd been slowly forming an idea for why he was so recalcitrant to do that.

“I think...that would have made things worse.”

Yurio finally looked up at Viktor, one eyebrow raised.

“How much did Yakov tell you about my condition?” Viktor asked.

He had Yurio's full attention now. “Not much. Just that you have amnesia.”

Viktor wasn't sure how much he should tell Yurio. The teenager certainly didn't need more things to worry about. But on the other hand, Viktor wanted Yurio to realize that if Viktor hadn't stayed in contact, it wasn't because he didn't care.

“My amnesia was caused by some sort of traumatic event or severe stress,” he said, “And when my memories come back, I'll remember the trauma, too. That's why I reacted so badly to the earthquake: I was remembering something very bad.”

“What was it?”

“Let's just leave it at 'bad.' Anyway, I was warned not to try to remember too fast, because it might trigger the trauma all over again. And I was told to stay far away from whatever caused it.” He was frowning now, and crossed his arms. “I was a mess when I first arrived in Hasetsu. Putting me back in St. Petersburg would probably have just worsened it, and I think part of me knew going home would be a bad idea, even if I didn't understand why.”

Yurio had pulled his knees up to his chest, and was frowning in thought.

“Old man, just what the hell _happened_ to you?”

Viktor had no answer for that.

“Yuri, please know that I never meant to abandon you. I don't think my mind was working clearly when I left Russia. As soon as I realized who I was, I called your ice rink and you blocked me—”

Yurio made a strangled noise. “That really was you?!”

“Well, you did get in touch later, so it all worked out eventually,” Viktor said, holding up his hands.

Yurio was quiet at that. But this time, the silence seemed to be more pensive than sullen.

“I'm glad you came out here, Yuri,” said Viktor. “It means a lot to me.”

The teenager shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.”

Viktor turned to leave, knowing it was time for them to go to the airport. Yurio got up and grabbed his luggage.

“I wish you'd just told us you were miserable,” he grumbled. “I don't get why you had to hide halfway across the world. Why couldn't you just talk to us?”

Viktor wished he knew the answer to that, too.

He accompanied the other Russians all the way to Saga Airport. Most of them weren't the type to like sentimental gestures, and were content to simply say goodbye and to wish him well. But as he was about to leave the building, Mila broke out of the security screening line, ran over and hugged him.

“Yuri texted me about what you told him,” she said, not letting him go.

“Was it too much?” he asked, “I hope it doesn't make him more worried.”

“Vitya, please,” she snorted and punched him on the arm. “We were all worried enough to fly out here looking for you. Yuri was obsessing over news of you for months. Letting us know what's going on with you helps us. It doesn't make us more upset.”

He rubbed his arm. Mila punched hard, despite her chipper face.

“I'm planning to call Yakov often,” he assured her, “So you'll hear about how I'm doing.”

She tutted. “Not good enough. He'll just say, 'Vitya's fine, go back to your quads!' I swear, that must be where you and Yuri get it from.”

“Get what from?”

“Pretending to be fine even when you're not.” She crossed her arms and looked at him sternly. “Yuri puts on a tough guy act, which is adorable, but he's still upset underneath it. You pretend to be happy. You fooled me, too, until I saw that video where you really _were_ happy.”

Viktor cocked his head, thinking about what she said. There were plenty of reasons why he should have been happy: he was wealthy, famous, handsome, at the top of his career and a Russian icon. But Mila's words felt uncomfortably true.

She held out her phone. “Let's swap numbers, okay? I need someone to help me plan pranks on Yuri, and Georgi's still mad at me about the hot spring incident.”

Viktor could tell it wasn't really about pranks. But he smiled—a small but real smile—and put in his number. Her face lit up and she texted him immediately.

“Ooh, new phone,” she said. “Still can't remember the password to your old one? You could get it factory-reset.”

“I'm not that desperate yet,” he said. “Good luck with the Grand Prix. I'll be watching.”

“Thanks. And take care of yourself, okay?”

She returned to the security screening line, where she and the other Russians gave him one last wave. He waved back, and finally left the airport.

His arm was still aching a little, but he felt warm inside.

#### November 28th, Hasetsu

With the Russians gone, Yuuri's life soon went back to normal. Mostly. There was now a tangle of nerves that coiled in his stomach whenever he thought about the future. Specifically, Viktor's future. Because Viktor's memories had started coming back.

It started with the car wreck flashback. The next one happened while they were folding towels, and Viktor had picked up a fuzzy bathmat and froze. Yuuri tensed up, prepared to respond to another relived trauma, but then Viktor's face softened.

“It's like Makkachin's fur,” he said, smiling a little wistfully. “That's what he feels like.”

Yuuri hadn't known what to say, so he had just put his hand on the mat and tried to imagine a poodle's fur. He wondered if Viktor wished he was back in Russia.

The next time, Viktor ran all the way to the ice rink on Saturday evening, and practically collapsed onto one of the benches as Yuuri's last class for the day filed out. The students sent him confused glances. Yuuri had initially thought something was terribly wrong, but then Viktor raised his head and beamed.

“Baranovskaya!” he said.

Yuuri put on his skate guards and walked over. “What?”

“I was showing Minako's class a _chainés_ turn, when I remembered Madame Baranovskaya,” he panted. “My old ballet teacher.”

“Wow,” Yuuri said. “I take it you really liked her?”

“Oh no, I hated her!” Viktor laughed. “She was so strict! Always criticizing my form. I just finished the _chainés_ when I heard her saying, 'Again, Vitya! I've seen spaghetti with better posture than you!' It's funny now, but I was so mad at the time!”

The third time it happened, Viktor wasn't laughing. Instead, he was looking rather sheepish while the Katsuki family stared at his handiwork in the kitchen.

“Shiro, dear?” Yuuri's mother stated gently, “It looks lovely, but what is it?”

“Pirozhki,” he said, leaning back on the counter. “It's a Russian stuffed pastry. I know we were supposed to have curry bread tonight, but I got distracted and I accidentally made this instead.”

“How do you _accidentally_ cook in Russian?” Toshiya asked.

“Yurio would steal my lunch whenever I brought pirozhki, so I started making extra ones and letting him have them. I think the habit stuck.”

“You spoiled him way too much.” Mari mumbled between mouthfuls. “Tastes good, though.”

The pirozhki was excellent, Yuuri agreed. But with each memory that came back, he felt his heart stutter. Every memory was one step closer to Viktor's old life and the day that he would go back to Russia. Yuuri could see the joy and wistfulness in his eyes whenever he remembered something else. A few months in a backwater like Hasetsu were nothing compared to the glamorous and successful life Viktor had waiting for him back home.

Not every memory was as pleasant as these. There were more flashbacks. There were nightmares. Sometimes Viktor would go an entire day without smiling, or he would wander off to be alone. Sometimes the only sign of it was that he acted unusually clingy or thankful to the people around him, and his gaze was distracted.

As November turned into December, the trickle of memories turned into a flood. Viktor would wake up from a dream or realize in passing that a whole segment of his life had come back: His parents, Makkachin, his first coach, his school years, Yakov, and more. He stopped recounting to Yuuri every blank that had filled in, although he'd talk about it if Yuuri asked.

The one conspicuous void that remained was his career. Viktor couldn't recall any of his competitions, interviews or public appearances. He joined Yuuri at the ice rink, hoping to jog those last few missing pieces, but they remained elusive.

“I'm working on a new routine,” Viktor said one day. “Something more dramatic! Want to hear the music?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“ _The Rite of Spring_ , by Igor Stravinsky,” Viktor said, and played a recording of it on his phone.

It was bizarre. Every time Yuuri thought he'd found the melody, it changed. The score couldn't decide whether it wanted to be fast or slow, happy or sad, and its rhythm lurched off course at unpredictable intervals. Beneath it all was a growing current of wrongness.

The music broke out into off-key screeches.

Yuuri startled. He pulled himself together, and coughed.

“It's...nice.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Really? Stravinsky would be disappointed to hear you say that. He was going for shock value.”

Yuuri looked down, and brushed ice shavings off his boot. It _was_ a beautiful song, in its own way, but it sounded more like the score to a horror movie than a figure skating routine.

“Well, good for him. It seems like it'd be really hard to skate to, though.”

Viktor shrugged at that. “I could use a challenge.”

The music dipped and swerved again, from joyous to furious to eerie. It sounded like somebody dying.

Yuuri shuddered.

Viktor frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It's fine. That song just gives me the creeps, that's all.”

“I'll warn you before it's about to play. Is that alright?”

That was fine. Yuuri might not like the song, but he was sure Viktor could do something amazing with it.

#### December 7th, Hasetsu

Viktor didn't take long to develop his new routine. He had probably worked on it before, in fact. As strange as most of the score was, to him it felt familiar, and he felt a peculiar affection for its beastly tones. He was cheerful and easygoing by nature. The _[Rite of Spring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IXMpUhuBMs)_...wasn't. Inspiration practically flooded him, and the movements came easily. In less than two weeks, he could fly through the whole four and a half minute program flawlessly. He had to show it off.

Despite Yuuri's strong distaste for the music, he was willing to stand at the rink wall and watch as Viktor skated out to the center of the rink. Viktor felt touched by his support, and gave Yuuri a grateful smile. Next to Yuuri, Minako leaned over the rink wall with a gleam in her eye and the sound system remote in her hand. On Yuuri's other side Yuuko and her daughters looked on eagerly.

“You sure you want to let the kids hear this?” Minako grinned at Yuuko. “It's pretty intense.”

“It's just an instrumental, right?” Yuuko replied. “They'll be fine.”

Minako, Yuuri and Viktor shared a knowing look. She pressed the play button.

Viktor's routine started at an upbeat part of the song, setting a peaceful and somewhat eerie tone. He moved slowly, delicately to match it, drawing on his ballet training. Then, kicking off for his first jump, a shriek of brass ruptured the tranquility.

In the _Rite_ , Stravinsky drew from Slavic peasant songs that “civilized” Europeans called backwards, primitive, barbaric. Traditional ballet was light and graceful. The dancers in the _Rite_ stomped and fell over. Instead of a happy ending, biblical story or morality tale, it culminated in an innocent girl's pointless death. It wasn't just ugly. Stavinsky had thrown away everything high society thought necessary for a performance to be good.

But when Viktor had heard it, he hadn't been able to get the music out of his head. The sacrificial maiden had been the best dancer in her tribe. She was an athlete, strong and fast. She could have fought back, could have refused, could have bolted. Had she really been forced to dance to her death?

He switched to his step sequence in time for the hardest part. Now, the strings and brass purposefully shifted their beats seemingly at random, throwing off any attempt to follow. Viktor didn't dare jump here. There was no identifiable rhythm, and just keeping time required all his concentration.

She could have chosen to stop. She could have fled. But if she had, the entire tribe would have turned on her. They'd praised her, admired her, _loved_ her for throwing her life away. And wasn't it a heady feeling to be adored? Wasn't it better to go out in glory, than to stop dancing and revert to being nothing? It was easy to sacrifice yourself, if you thought your life was worthless to begin with.

The dizzying beat smoothed out. He swept from a three-turn into a quad flip, then into a spread eagle.

But, the girl could run. It might cost her everything her old life had given her, but if she was willing to try, she _could run_.

His last jump was a triple Axel. It wasn't terribly challenging, compared to the quads, but it was Yuuri's favorite jump. In the choreographic sequence that followed, Viktor purposefully borrowed moves from the _Hammerklavier_ routine. That would give Yuuri a smile.

The music cut off early, leaving the audience reeling and unable to make sense of what it had just heard. Plenty of chords were still unresolved. The routine itself was unresolved. Any judge would dock points for that, but Viktor wasn't skating for judges here.

This time, the girl didn't die. She'd thrown off her crown and ran for her life.

Viktor held his final stance for a few seconds before finally relaxing. The small audience broke out into cheers.

“My ribs hurt just from watching that,” Yuuri said, slumping over on the barrier.

Viktor left the rink and immediately collapsed on one of the benches. “ _You're_ tired?”

Yuuko cried, “That was so cool! I've never seen anything like that!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the triplets running off somewhere. That was odd. Usually, they'd be all over him, asking how to do the moves in his routine. But his head was pounding and Yuuri was patting his hair, so Viktor couldn't pay them much attention.

It was probably nothing important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a person's mental health improves, sometimes they actually feel worse for a while. This is because the brain finally feels safe enough to process all the pain that's happened to it. Figuring out how to express and make sense of this pain is often a major part of therapy. 
> 
> What's one of the most common methods people use to do this? Music.


	11. Finding Viktor Nikiforov

#### December 8th, St. Petersburg

“Have you seen this—”

“Yeah! I can't believe he—”

“He actually finished it?!”

“I still hate that noise—”

Yuri rolled his eyes at Mila and Georgi's yells, but played the video again.

After his “Don't worry about me even though I'm acting incredibly sketchy” video last month, Viktor Nikiforov had vanished again, at least as far as the general public knew. His usual social media accounts remained dead, and the new one that hosted the November video had no further activity. His coach had confirmed that yes, the video was real and Viktor was safe, but had given no further details.

The news media had mostly moved on by now, but gossip rags around the world claimed to have sightings of Viktor (always unverifiable), and skating fans and conspiracy theorists were still debating and analyzing the video on social media.

Then a video of Viktor skating to the _Rite of Spring_ came out, and the internet was sent spinning on its axis again.

Yuri watched the grueling routine again, and felt a little spark of jealousy. Trust Viktor to upstage everyone even when he wasn't competing.

He checked the video's comments. Most people were overjoyed, because they finally had confirmation that Viktor was physically healthy and still skating. Some people were concerned: the video appeared to have been taken without Viktor's knowledge, and had been posted to an account that had never been associated with him before. And some people were trying to identify the ice rink he had skated at. Yuri frowned.

He pulled up one of the main websites for Viktor's fans. On the forums, they had already figured out that Viktor was in Japan, and had made a list of every ice rink in the country. They were steadily eliminating possible locations by comparing photos of the rinks' interiors and by Japanese fans visiting the rinks in person. One of the rinks still left to be checked was Ice Castle Hasetsu.

 

> icetigerplisetsky: watch your back
> 
> vnwhite: ?
> 
> icetigerplisetsky: the fangirls are coming for you
> 
> icetigerplisetsky: hide. now.

#### December 9th, Hasetsu

It wasn't just fangirls. There was now a herd of reporters, paparazzi, photographers, fans, and general gossip-mongers prowling around the premises of Ice Castle Hasetsu. Yuuko had spotted them arriving while Viktor and Yuuri were lifting the triplets over the ice, and she dragged them into the employee-only room before they could be spotted and harassed by the crowd.

“Can we wait them out?” Yuuri asked.

Viktor doubted that. “There's more of them than there are of us. And they can take breaks and come back later.”

“How did they even find us?” Yuuri fretted.

Viktor slid his eyes over to the triplets, who giggled shamelessly, but he said nothing. After all, it was surprising that he'd been able to avoid the media for as long as he had. He'd have to face the world sooner or later. He could imagine their questions already: “Mr. Nikiforov, what happened?” “Why did you disappear so suddenly?” “Why didn't you tell anyone you were alright for months?”

_“Why couldn't you just talk to us?”_

Yurio's question pierced through his mind, a snippet from the past month returning to haunt him. Viktor pressed his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. Yuuri brushed his fingers against Viktor's. He took Yuuri's hand.

Why hadn't he told the other skaters something was wrong? What had stopped him from telling them? Why had he felt the urge to fly halfway across the world and disappear?

_“What is the problem, boy?”_

What _was_ the problem, as Yakov had said? What had shaken Viktor up so badly?

He felt the creeping numbness of dissociation coming back. It had been a long time since the last episode, and he had hoped that it was gone for good. He tightened his grip on Yuuri's fingers. He didn't want to speak to the press. He wasn't ready for the world's eyes on him again.

_“Like I'm a puppet, dancing on strings for the audience.”_

He felt Yuuri rubbing his thumb against Viktor's palm, a wordless anchor that kept him from floating away.

He'd tried for so long to be the Viktor Nikiforov that the world expected him to be. Whoever that was. Viktor didn't really know, but at least that person seemed pretty good at faking it.

_“Pretending to be fine even when you're not.”_

Mila had called him out on that. Why had he pretended? Why had he humored the media for so long, playing along with their game, dancing to the routine that they had choreographed for him?

_“You were perfect, all the time.”_

Sure, Georgi, but a perfect puppet. Acting the part that his country wanted from him. He had to be perfect, because skating and winning were the only things he had. When he won, people liked him, paid attention to him, valued him. If he didn't win gold, if he didn't play the part, what would he have left? Who would still care about Viktor Nikiforov?

_“They're dead, Viktor.”_

No one.

He slid down the wall and ran his hand through messy hair. Yuuri sat down with him.

Viktor had taken up the role, and played his part. Performing, both on and off the ice. No sadness, no bad moods, no self-doubt or weakness. Nothing that could disappoint people. Performing until he had forgotten it was a role.

All he had to do was walk out that door, leave behind Yuuri and Yuuko and the girls, and he could take up the role again.

_“I didn't feel like myself. I'm not sure what 'myself' would mean.”_

He had forgotten who he was long before the amnesia had happened. He'd been _dissociating_ long before it had happened, and the fugue was simply the culmination of years of ignoring himself. The final grounding question he and Yuuri used resounded in his head:

_“What kind of person are you, Viktor Nikiforov?”_

What was he, when the cameras and journalists and the audience weren't watching? What would he be, when the years finally caught up to him and he couldn't compete anymore?

That fear of obsolescence, of losing people's attention, had driven him to skate until he collapsed, and to maintain his fake smile and charming act even while he'd been slowly suffocating under the weight of public expectation. It was exhausting, and he had begun withdrawing from people, because the only time he could relax was when he was alone.

_“I wish you'd told us you were miserable.”_

Viktor understood now. He hadn't told Yurio and the others because he didn't think they would care. Yakov had only taken him in because Viktor was a promising skater. Viktor had become distant from Georgi over the years, as the other man had grown resentful of being in Viktor's shadow. He'd never tried to get close to Mila or Yurio at all. His false smile had been firmly in place by the time he'd met them, and it was tiring to keep up the act around them.

The thought that any of them might care about him as more than a competitor had never occurred to him. After all, that was the only worthwhile thing he had seen in himself.

Yuuri wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and Viktor distantly realized he was shaking.

_“I don't care if you can compete or not, Vitya.”_

He'd been wrong about them.

_“Skating is just a sport. I'd rather you be okay than win gold.”_

Completely, wonderfully wrong.

The constant strain of performing for the media, to always win and never disappoint people, had sucked out most of his genuine love for figure skating. Viktor had felt trapped, both by the world's expectations, and by the inevitable end of his career. He knew there was no happy ending in the story he was acting out, but there was also no way to stop it. Eventually, his mind had escaped in the only way it could: by forgetting everything and running far, far away.

He hadn't had a destination in mind. He hadn't been thinking much at all. He'd just taken the fastest flight he could as far away as possible, and ended up in Japan. In a daze, he'd wandered away from the cities, probably out of some half-conscious desire not to be recognized. It was only by chance that he'd gotten lost in Hasetsu.

But in Hasetsu, he hadn't lost himself.

_“You'll just be 'Shiro' forever in this house.”_

He had gotten to know himself all over again, as Shiro Katsuki. As Yuuri's boyfriend and choreographer. As the Katsuki family's friend and employee. As Minako's assistant in her ballet classes. As a friend to Yuuko and her children. As the runner who kept catching stray dogs and bringing them to the shelter and to rescue groups. As Viktor Nikiforov, _without_ the press and the podium.

And Viktor liked the person that he had turned out to be.

He felt the world coming back into focus around him. Across the small room, Yuuko was shushing her daughters and putting on a TV show to distract them. On the other side of the door, the reporters were looking for him. At his side, Yuuri. Yuuri said nothing, merely watched him with understanding eyes, and held Viktor in his arm.

_“You'd still be important to me even if you never skated at all.”_

If the public was disappointed by Viktor's real self, so be it.

He unwrapped Yuuri's hand from his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to Yuuri's knuckles.

“It's time,” he said.

Yuuri nodded. “Are you ready?”

“No. But I'll manage.”

He stood up, and sent one last smile to Yuuri and Yuuko. It felt like a mirror image of his arrival in Hasetsu six months ago. He'd been falling, and they caught him. Now, he opened the door, and walked out, leaving them behind.

He looked out over the gathered crowd of reporters, and they converged on him immediately. He recited his and Yuuri's grounding questions in his mind. His heart was shaking and he had to remind himself to breathe. His intent must have shown on his face, because the crowd quieted down and let him speak uninterrupted.

“My name is Viktor Nikiforov. It's December 9th, 2016. I'm in Hasetsu, Japan, where I'm answering questions for the first time since June. I came here because I had a nervous breakdown.”

#### December 10th, Hasetsu

Viktor had not told the press details about the exact nature of his crisis, but he had made it clear that yes, he'd left figure skating for mental health reasons, and yes, he was recovering well. No, he had not decided whether to return to competition next season. And by the way, he added, the hot springs in Hasetsu were excellent and the reporters should really try them.

Now Yuuri and Viktor were hanging out (read: hiding from the press) in Yuuri's room, waiting out the media firestorm that had rocked Russia, the figure skating world, and the internet at large.

Yuuri was grateful to the townsfolk of Hasetsu, who had told the paparazzi nothing about Viktor other than, “Such a nice young man, helped me find my lost dog,” “Showed my daughter how to do a pirouette,” and “His manners are much better than yours, get your camera out of my face.” No one was willing to tell unflattering stories about him or reveal where he'd been staying, so even though Yu-Topia was crawling with reporters who needed a place to stay, none of them sniffed out where Viktor was.

“We're making a nice profit from this, actually,” Toshiya had laughed. “All our rooms are booked!”

Yuuri was sitting on his bed, watching the social networks explode. He had been nervous to look at it at first, but the internet's response had been...overwhelmingly supportive, actually. And loud. Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook had briefly shut down from the overload.

“Who's @christophe-gc?” Yuuri asked. “He sounds like he knows you.”

Viktor glanced up from where he was lying next to Yuuri. “That's Chris Giacometti. Figure skater, pole-dancer, good-natured horndog.” He grinned. “Has a large collection of silver medals, thanks to me.”

“He says he's glad you're recovering,” Yuuri smiled. “And that he's missed you.”

“I'll drop him a line when I get my phone back.”

Yuuri's smile broadened. Viktor remembered his passwords now, but had not wanted to deal with the fallout from the press conference. So for today, he'd handed his phone and social media accounts to the person he knew who could be discreet and keep a cool head at all times: Mari.

Mari, pretending to be Viktor, was utterly apathetic to the horde of questions, well-wishes and demands people were sending to Viktor's accounts. Her favorite activity was finding long, detailed analysis from fans speculating about what had happened to Viktor. She responded to their posts with...a picture of the octopus statue from Hasetsu's train station. Now the statue had turned into a meme called #victopus. Thousands of people were tearing their hair out trying to discover what it meant.

She also enjoyed posting Viktor's selfies that he'd taken around town over the last few months. She spaced them out so that it appeared Viktor was in those locations, sending dozens of reporters, photographers and random fans on wild goose chases around Hasetsu. Yuuri could always tell when she'd just posted another one, because he would hear a stampede of people leaving the inn.

Apart from Mari trolling people, Yuuri's favorite part of the internet's reaction was Yakov's response. He, Georgi, Mila and Yurio had quickly released a statement declaring their support for Viktor's decision and their respect for him as a friend and competitor. Mari had posted a link to the statement with one of her few sincere comments, a simple smiley face. This exchange had prevented a lot of heated debate about conflict between Viktor and the other Russians, and Yuuri was grateful for their visible support.

There were many other messages like that. Each one warmed Yuuri's heart. He told Viktor about posts from other skaters, like Phichit Chulanont's string of firework and birthday cake emojis, and Mila's “So proud of you! Yuri cried but SHHH don't tell him I said that,” followed by Yurio's “Shut up you hag!”

Viktor remained blissfully oblivious to most of the internet's reaction, save for the highlights that Yuuri and Mari mentioned to him. He seemed more content, more stable now than Yuuri had ever seen him before. So Yuuri took this quiet moment to raise a topic he'd been thinking about.

“I looked up the _Hammerklavier Sonata_ after the Russians left,” he said, “Georgi's reaction made me curious about it.”

Viktor looked up at him, eyes alight. “Oh?”

Yuuri gave him a mock glare. “You gave me one of the hardest pieces ever written for piano.”

“You picked it too,” Viktor countered. “Besides, if I'd told you it was hard, would you have even attempted to skate to it?”

“...Probably not,” Yuuri said. “But that's not the important point.”

“What is the important point?”

“The final movement of the sonata has three different parts playing the same melody in counterpoint,” Yuuri explained, “In English, the word for that is a _fugue_. From the Latin _fugere_ , meaning 'to flee'.”

“So it is.”

“And the hallmark of a dissociative fugue,” Yuuri went on, “is forgetting who you are and fleeing to somewhere else.”

“That's right.” Viktor was smiling softly now.

“When you mentioned the song to me, you were thinking of yourself, weren't you?”

The other man nodded, and closed his eyes.

“I found it comforting. At the time, I did not know what the real “me” was: Shiro Katsuki, whom I knew, or the person I had forgotten being. They felt like two different people. A musical fugue is multifaceted; it shows how the same theme can play out in different ways, and each way contributes to the greater whole. Different, yet one.”

Yuuri reflected on that for a while, and asked, “Who do you feel like you are now?”

“Whole,” Viktor replied. “A little bit of all three parts.”

“Three?” Yuuri furrowed his brow.

“Three. The third was the person I pretended to be, for the media. The man with the fake smiles.” He sighed lightly, relaxed. “A facade, really. I'm not going to try to live like that anymore. But I'm at peace with it, because it brought me to Hasetsu.”

Yuuri smiled, and stroked his fingers across Viktor's hair.

Not everything was perfect. They still hadn't decided what would happen after this. Yuuri would respect whatever path Viktor took, but he hoped there would be a place for him in it. Viktor wouldn't forget about him. Yuuri felt secure in that, now. But they were still at a crossroads between an old life and a new one, and Viktor couldn't be in two places at once.

Viktor half-opened his eyes. He poked at the corner of Yuuri's mouth, where the smile had faded from his face.

“Yuuri?”

“Hmm?”

“Don't worry about the press. They've got the attention span of a fly. Just act nice and boring for a while, and they'll move on to something else.”

Yuuri chuckled. “For now, I'm sure Mari will take full advantage of it.”

And so would he.

He wrapped his fingers around Viktor's, embracing the warmth of Viktor's presence while it was still here. He could deal with the loss if he was forced to. But the anticipation, the helpless waiting and uncertainty, that was what gnawed at him.

He looked down at Viktor, dozing off again beside him. Viktor had given him so much, from kisses to coaching to choreography, and had made Yuuri feel _wanted,_ and capable like he'd never been before. He might have designed the routines, but Yuuri was the one who had stunned the Russians with the _Hammerklavier_ , and it was Yuuri who had carried Viktor through his heaviest days.

Maybe Yuuri wasn't so helpless after all.

_Perhaps_ , he thought, reading Yakov's statement again, _it's time I pushed myself a little more_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fugere" is also the ancestor of the words "fugitive" and "refuge."
> 
> A "nervous breakdown" isn't a specific mental disorder. It can refer to pretty much any mental health issue. It's also a misnomer. Most mental disorders are caused by the mind trying to cope with what it's experienced, and to protect itself. It just happens in a way that raises a new set of problems. But it's not a sign that the mind, or the person, is broken. People aren't like vases that shatter and become useless; as long as we're alive, we can grow.


	12. The City

#### December 13th, Hasetsu

Viktor Nikiforov loved to skate.

This fact was not particularly remarkable; many people loved to skate. But Viktor also loved to win. He loved the attention and the awards and the whole world looking up at him in awe. Once, he had loved it like a starving man loved food: desperately, obsessively, and willing to throw away his education, his inheritance, his social life, even his very sense of self for it. He had been willing to mold himself into whatever his country and the media wanted him to be, even if it drained the life from him.

There was still a part of him that wanted that. He wanted to claw his way back up the podium and prove to the world that reports of his death—literal or metaphorical—were greatly exaggerated. But it was less pressing, now. He had people who wanted him, even if he never won another medal. He had friends who didn't ask him to play a role, but simply liked him the way he was. Viktor knew now that he could walk away from the competitive circuit at any time, and still be happy. He might have wanted to win again, but he didn't need it.

But he _really_ wanted to win.

But he also _really_ wanted to stay with Yuuri.

Damn.

Now that the media frenzy had faded, he and Yuuri returned to the ice rink. They had taken a break from practicing jumps—Yuuri _would_ learn the quad toe loop, Viktor was sure of it—and were just messing around now, seeing if they could adapt their _pas de deux_ dance to the ice. But Yuuri stopped suddenly, his hands fidgeting and his eyes averted. He hadn't looked that nervous around Viktor in months.

“Yuuri? What's wrong?”

Yuuri took a deep breath. “Viktor, have you decided whether you'll go back to Russia yet?”

Viktor frowned, and looked down at the ice. His heart twinged. He couldn't answer the question any better than he had last time.

“Because if you do go,” Yuuri said, “can I come with you?”

Viktor's head snapped up, his eyes wide.

“I know it's a lot to ask, and we've only known each other six months,” Yuuri rambled, “But I've always wanted to see the world, and I never had anyone I could do it with. I don't know Russian, but you learned Japanese, so...I could try?”

“Yuuri, do you mean that?” Viktor asked, “Would you really go with me, if I went back?”

Yuuri took another breath, fists clenched. He lifted his head and looked Viktor in the eye.

“Yes. If you'll have me.”

Viktor surged forward and hugged him so hard they toppled over onto the ice. Viktor felt a huge heart-shaped grin spread across his face.

“Oh my god,” he said, shaking his head disbelievingly at the wonderful man beneath him. “I'd never thought—Wow.”

Yuuri's mouth twitched. “So that's a yes?”

“God, yes. Wherever I go, I want you with me.”

Yuuri's eyes glistened, and he hugged Viktor again. Viktor hugged him back.

“Wherever you are, I want to be,” Yuuri replied. “But maybe not freezing my butt off on the ice.”

They both started laughing at that, and Viktor helped pull Yuuri up. Viktor immediately returned to hugging Yuuri. He couldn't help himself. Yuuri had just made it possible for _both_ of Viktor's dreams to come true.

“Tell me about St. Petersburg?” Yuuri asked, smiling and resting his chin on Viktor's shoulder.

“It's beautiful,” Viktor said, and he was so glad he could remember his homeland now. “It's at the mouth of the Neva River on the Baltic Sea. It's full of concert halls and libraries and museums and cathedrals and art. Much of the city is hundreds of years old and the architecture is stunning. They have a fantastic ballet tradition. In the winter the river  freezes—I first learned to skate on one of the lakes.”

“It sounds amazing, Viktor.”

“I think you'll like it.”

He really, really hoped Yuuri would.

“When can we leave?”

Viktor startled, and pulled away from Yuuri slightly.

“Wait, you're ready to go already?”

“Not immediately, silly,” Yuuri chuckled, “I'd have to pack and let everyone know, and get documents to stay in the country somehow. That could take a while.”

Suddenly, Viktor had a marvelous idea.

“Yakov could train you! You could quickly get permission if he coached you for competitions!”

“What?” Yuuri's eyes went wide. “Would he even want to?”

Viktor nodded. “He was really impressed by your routine. He thinks you could be internationally competitive, especially if you learned a couple quad jumps. I told you, Yuuri, you are _amazing_ at this.”

“But I've never competed before.” Yuuri reddened and shook a little. “Not for real, anyway. I don't know anything about the higher levels.”

Viktor grinned. “Good thing you have people who do know then, right? We could shorten the _Hammerklavier_ routine so it can be the long program—which would lower the difficulty for you, by the way—I could choreograph your short program, and you could start at local and regional competitions. You're overqualified for those but the rules will make you start there. And at the NHK Trophy you could theoretically be invited next fall, even though you aren't ISU ranked yet. If we move fast, there's still time for you to enter local competitions and reach national level by this time next year.”

Yuuri made an incoherent noise, mouth agape.

“We'd have to fly back and forth between Japan and Russia, because Yakov is a popsicle and he would melt into a puddle of rage if he had to stay here, but that also means we could visit your family again and—”

“Viktor,” Yuuri interrupted.

“Yes?”

“ _Our_ family.”

Viktor's grin got even bigger. God, he loved this man.

“I have no idea whether I'd be any good in a competition,” Yuuri said. “And this is a lot to think about. But if it means I could stay with you in Russia, I'll give it a try.”

Viktor embraced him again. Yuuri would be a fantastic competitor. He just knew it.

#### December 25th, Pulkovo Airport, St. Petersburg

Viktor had not been kidding about the quick visa. Apparently the immigration officials were familiar with the frequent relocation that athletes did at the international level, and gave Yuuri provisional permission to move to Russia before all the paperwork was finalized. The fact that _the_ Viktor Nikiforov and Yakov Feltsman were involved certainly sped things up, too.

So in a few extremely hectic days, Yuuri signed a coaching contract, registered for Japan's upcoming figure skating competitions, packed his bags, changed his mailing address and said goodbye to his friends and family. He was a little sad to leave them, but he and Viktor would be visiting Japan several times over the next few months, so he wasn't too broken up about it. Mostly, he was just excited to finally, _finally_ see the world beyond Hasetsu, and to see it with Viktor.

They had arrived in St. Petersburg without a problem, and Yuuri was relieved that his first airplane flight was over. Now they were riding in a cab from the airport to Viktor's apartment in the city. It wasn't the pristine wilderness Yuuri had once imagined, but still fascinating, in its own way. The late winter dawn was just now breaking in the east, and the snow glittered upon the rooftops.

Viktor was half asleep, and his head rested on Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri looked down at their entwined hands and marveled at the fact that this was actually happening. They were in Russia. Together. It could have passed him by, like so many opportunities before. But this time, Yuuri had reached out for what he had wanted, and he had gotten it.

The taxi driver said something in Russian, and Viktor sleepily translated it as, “We're coming up on the city center now.”

Yuuri craned his neck to look forward. The skyline was beautiful, full of spires and domes, and it seemed to be shining with pinks and golds in the morning light. There were ships and sailboats dotting the water, and he heard the cries of seagulls. He smiled. Seagulls were the same everywhere.

“I thought there would be skyscrapers.”

“Mmm, no,” Viktor murmured, opening his eyes a little but otherwise not moving. “Too many pretty things in the way.”

“Pretty things?” Yuuri smiled. His boyfriend was adorable when he was like this.

“Palaces. Museums. Theaters. Historical...stuff,” Viktor murmured. Yuuri felt his heart lift in anticipation.

Viktor lived close to the center of the city, and their route took them right through the historical district, and Yuuri could not turn his head quickly enough to take in every monument and architectural wonder that he saw. The city squares were full of people dressed in all different styles of clothing, and the streets were lit up with color and music. They passed over the frozen Neva River, and Yuuri grinned at the thought of Viktor skating on the lakes as a child.

They arrived at Viktor's apartment complex, where one coach, three figure skaters, and one big brown poodle were waiting for them. Viktor gasped, dropped his luggage on the sidewalk, and knelt down to hug Makkachin, who jumped into his arms and would not stop licking his face. Georgi helped Yuuri pay the cabbie while Mila laughed and took pictures. Yurio looked up from his phone, rolled his eyes at Viktor, and tried to hide his smile.

“Best birthday present _ever_ ,” Viktor said, half-muffled by poodle fur.

“Get up, Vitya,” said Yakov, his face stern but his voice fond, “It's about time you took your dog back. Now get inside, it's cold and you've hardly time to rest before practice.” He nodded at Yuuri. “That goes for you, too, Yurik.”

“Yurik?” Yuuri repeated.

Yurio elbowed him. “We've already got a Yuri here. Suck it up.”

Yuuri shook his head, lips twitching. Turnabout was fair play.

Their welcome meal turned out to be several large boxes of hot Ethiopian takeout, which he welcomed after the chilly trip here. Traditional Ethiopian, it turned out, was not meant be eaten with chopsticks. Or any utensils, apparently. Mila and Georgi had ordered it on purpose to mess with him. He got a lot of stains on his sleeves, before she showed him how to eat it properly. When his stomach was full, he leaned into Viktor's side, and closed his eyes, letting the food and the conversation wash over him.

Something licked him.

He cracked an eye open, and found a poodle head in his lap, nose half-buried in Yuuri's sleeve.

“Makkachin,” Victor cooed, “Are you being neglected? Did the big mean Yakov not feed you ever?”

Yakov grunted. “Your dog is fine, Vitya. He just likes the new skater better than you.”

“No!” Viktor gasped, and put on a face of fake horror.

Between them, Yuuri grinned, ducked his head, and scratched Makkachin's ears. The poodle nuzzled him, licked Yuuri's sleeves again, and gazed not-so-subtly at the table. Yuuri hugged Makkachin close, _away_ from the take-out boxes.

Somewhere distant, he could hear the _Hammerklavier Sonata_ playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> I have also finished writing a new Yuri: On Ice!!! fanfic, called Seven Years and Twenty-Four Hours. This story also explores what happens when a character is in a place they're not supposed to be. But this time, it's Yuuri, and the "place" is seven years in the future. First chapter is posted. It will update every Sunday, starting May 13, 2018.


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